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» I
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When She Came Home
From College
th: n:-:w ■ w
PUBLIC LIBRARY
:M
HEL-LO, LITTLE GIRL
(page 1G)
j Came Horn*;
a College
, ... VI H i XO
8£V
.A " *"*i-l.»-
F.O-T'- <*X,;>
koi our- *i'fF";V>B'-'
When She Came Home
From College
BY
hlc\\J- i W
MARIAN KENT HURD
AND
JEAN BINGHAM WILSON
With Illustrations by
George Gibbs
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
@bt ttitoetffce pteft Cambri&0e
1909
..' YORK
V
103944U
COPYRIGHT, 1909, BT MARIAN KENT HURD AND JEAN BINGHAM WILSON
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Published October, iqoq
cr>
Contents
I. Alma Mater I
II. Home 15
III. The Theory of Philosophy 40
IV. The Practice 56
V. The"Idgit" 81
VI. The Duchess 106
VII. "The Falling out of Faithful Friends " 128
VIII. Applied Philanthropy 142
IX. "Without" 170
X. The Vegetable Man's Daughter 193
XL Real Trouble 222
XII. The End of the Interregnum 249
Illustrations
Hel-kj little girl (page *6) Frontispiece
Cantyloops ! What *s them f 68
Why are you eating in here f 72
In the middle of the floor sat the Idgit 104
. I'm Mrs. ' Arris i an* I 've come to 'elp you hout 108
Such a sadly changed Gassy 182
Barbara sank down wearily 190
When She Came Home
From College
CHAPTER I
ALMA MATER
WELL, this is cheerful ! " cried the In-
fant, as she stepped briskly into the
room where the rest of the "Set"
were dejectedly assembled. " What if this is
the last night of college I What if our diplo-
mas are all concealed in the tops of our top
trays! Can't this crowd be original enough
to smile a little on our last evening, instead
of looking like a country prayer-meeting?"
The Infant cast herself upon the cushion-
less frame of a Morris armchair, and grinned
at the forms on the packing-boxes around her.
Her eyes roved round the disorderly room,
stripped of the pretty portieres, cushions, man-
dolins, and posters, which are as inevitably
a part of a college suite as the curriculum is
2 HOME FROM COLLEGE
a part of the college itself. Even the Infant
suppressed a sigh as she caught sight of the
trunks outside in the corridor.
" Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean ;
Tears from the depths of some divine despair,
Rise from the heart and gather to the eyes,
On looking at the — excelsior — on the floor,
And thinking of the days that are no more,"
she chanted.
"It *s all very well to talk in that unfeeling
way, Infant," said Knowledge, separating her-
self with difficulty from the embrace of the
Sphinx and sitting up on the packing-box to
address her chums to better advantage. " It 's
very well to talk, but the fact remains that
to-morrow we are all to be scattered to the
four corners of the United States. And who
knows whether we shall ever all be together
again in our whole lives? " Knowledge forgot
the dignity of her new A. B. and gulped au-
dibly; while the Sphinx patted her on the
back, and said nothing, as usual.
"Weill" retorted the Infant, rising, "if I
am the youngest, I have more sense than the
ALMA MATER 3
rest of you. I 've kept my chafing-dish out of
my trunk, and I've saved some sugar and
alcohol and chocolate, and* borrowed ' some
milk and butter from the table downstairs;
because I knew something would be needed
to revive this set, and I had n't the money to
buy enough smelling-salts."
The Infant ran down the corridor, and came
back with her battered dish ; and the girls gath-
ered together on the dusty floor around the
box, which now served as a table. Their faces,
worn from the strain of the week of gradua-
tion, relaxed noticeably as the familiar odor
began to float upon the air.
"This is comfortable," sighed Barbara,
gratefully. "Let me take the spoon, Infant.
Your four years of college life have not yet
A. B.'d you in fudge."
" Oh, you are not quite crushed by the pangs
of the coming separation, after all, then,"
grinned the youngest member. "Girls, did
you hear an awful chuckle when our Barbara
finished her Commencement speech yester-
day ? It was I, and I was dreadfully ashamed."
4 HOME FROM COLLEGE
"Mercy, no!" cried Atalanta, turning
shocked eyes at the offender. " What on earth
did you chuckle for, when it was so sad ? "
"That's just it!" said the Irreverent In-
fant. "When Babbie began to talk of Life
arid Love and the Discipline of Experience
and the Opportunities for Uplifting One's
Environment, — wasn't that it, Babbie? — I
began to wonder how she knew it all. Bab-
bie has never loved a man in her life" (the
Infant glanced sharply at Barbara's clear pro-
file); "Babbie has never had any experi-
ences to be disciplined about ; Babbie's envi-
ronment, which is we, girls, has n't been
especially uplifted by any titanic efforts on
her part ; and as for Life, why, Babbie 's had
only twenty-one years of it, and some of them
were unconscious. So when her oration ended
with that grand triumphant climax, and every
one was holding her breath and looking awed
and tearful, I was chuckling to think how
beautifully Barbara was selling all those peo-
ple."
A horrified clamor arose from the girls.
ALMA MATER 5
" Why, Evelyn Clinton ! It was lovely I "
" Infant, you shameless creature I "
With a whirl of her white skirts, amid the
confusion that followed, the House Plant
rose to her feet and the rescue of her chum.
"Just because you can't appreciate what a
splendid mind Babbie has, Evelyn Clinton,
and how much the English professors think of
her, and what a prodigy she is, anyway — "
" Hear, hear ! " cried Barbara, laughing.
" — And how proud we are of her," went
on the impetuous House Plant "Just be-
cause you have no soul is no reason why you
should deny its possession by others ! "
" Well, I 've stirred you all up, anyway,"
said the Infant, comfortably. " And that is all
I wanted."
Barbara took the spoon out of the fudge
dreamily. "You may be right," she said
to the Infant " You know I did n't get the
Eastman Scholarship."
" Don't you ever mention that odious thing
again I " cried Atalanta. " You know that the
whole class thinks you should have had it"
6 HOME FROM COLLEGE
Barbara turned her face aside to hide a
momentary shadow.
"Well, in any case," she said, "there is
work ahead for me. Every one who antici-
pates a literary career must work hard for
recognition."
" You won't have to," declared the House
Plant, hugging her chum, and followed by
a murmur of assent from the floor. "Why,
Babbie, did n't you get five dollars from that
Sunday-School Journal, and don't they want
more stories at the same rate ? I think that
is splendid I "
" 1 shall not write insipid litde stories when
I go home," Barbara answered, smiling kindly
down at the enthusiastic litde devotee who had
subsided at her feet. " I shall write something
really worth while, — perhaps a story which
will unveil characters in all their complexity
and show how they are swayed by all the
different elements which enter into environ-
ment—"
"Ouch!" exclaimed the Infant. "You are
letting the fudge burn, and unveiling your
ALMA MATER 7
characteristic of absent-mindedness to the set,
who know it already. This stuff is done, any-
way, and I'll pour it out Or, no, — let's eat
it hot, with these spoons."
The Infant dealt out spoons with the rapid-
ity of a dexterous bridge-player, and the girls
burned their tongues in one second, and
blamed their youngest in the next
"By the way, Babbie/ ' suggested the In-
fant, with a view to hiding speedily her second
enormity, " you never told us the advice that
New York editor gave you last week."
Barbara's scorn rose. "He was horrid,"
she said. " He told me that an entering wedge
into literary life was stenography in a maga-
zine office. Imagine ! He said that sometimes
stenographers earned as much as twenty dol-
lars a week. I told him that perhaps he had
not realized that I was of New England an-
cestry and Vassar College, and that I was not
wearing my hair in a huge pompadour, nor
was I chewing gum."
The others looked impressed.
"What did he reply?" asked the Infant
8 HOME FROM COLLEGE
" He said, ' Dear me, I had forgotten the
need of a rarefied atmosphere for the college
graduate. I am sorry that I am no longer at
leisure.' And I walked out."
" You did just right," declared the House
Plant, warmly, confirmed in her opinion by a
murmur of assent from the girls.
" Right! " echoed the Infant. "Babbie, you
are the dearest old goose in the world. You
will never succeed nor make any money if
you take an attitude like that."
" I shall not write for money," declared
Barbara, beginning to pace the floor. " What
is money, compared to accomplishment? I
shall go home, shut myself up, and write,
write, write — until recognition comes to
me. I am sure it will come if I work and
wait!"
She flung her head back with her usual
independent gesture, and the crimson color
rose in her cheeks. And the girls eyed, a little
awesomely, this splendid prodigy, in whose
powers they believed with that absolute, un-
questioning faith which is found only in youth
ALMA MATER 9
and college. The short silence was broken
almost immediately by the Infant
" Are you going to have a chance to write
at home, undisturbed ? " she asked. "Our
house is a perfect Bedlam all the time. Two
young sisters and a raft of brothers keep me
occupied every minute."
"There are four children younger than I,
too," answered Barbara. " But do you suppose
that I am going to allow them to come be-
tween me and my life-work? It would not be
right ; and my mother would never permit it."
"Mine would," said the Infant, gloomily.
" She thinks it is the mission of an elder sis-
ter to help manage those who have the luck
to be younger and less responsible. I wish
your mother could have come to graduation,
Babbie. She might have converted my mother
to her standpoint"
"I wish she had come," said Barbara, wist-
fully. " It seems as if she might have man-
aged some way."
Her mind flew back to the quiet little West-
ern town, — a thousand miles away; to the
io HOME FROM COLLEGE
household full of children, presided over by
that serene, sweet-faced mother. Why could
not that mother have left the children with
some one, and have come to see her eldest
daughter graduate " with honor " ?
"What a splendid thing it is to have a
real gift to develop, like Babbie's," sighed the
House Plant
Barbara looked uncomfortable. "You all
have them," she said. " I think I talk about
mine more than the rest of you."
"You may give us all presentation copies
of your magnum opus," announced the In-
fant, mercenarily. " You will come forth from
your lair — I mean workroom — a dozen years
hence, and find us all living happy, common-
place lives. The House Plant here will be ful-
filling her name by raising six Peter Thomp-
son children and embroidering lingerie waists.
Atalanta, — by the way, girls, mother asked
me why we called that very slow-moving girl
Atalanta, and I told her I was ashamed to
think that she should ask such a question, —
well, Atalanta will marry that Yale individual
ALMA MATER n
who never took his eyes off her at Class-Day
march. And I think you are mean not to tell
us, Atalanta, when we know you 're engaged."
The Infant threw a spoon at her blushing
friend, who unexpectedly justified her nick-
name by dodging it
" As for the Sphinx," went on the Infant,
happy in the unusual feat of holding the at-
tention of the girls, " the poor Sphinx can't
get married because she never says enough
for a man to know whether it *s yes or no.
She will just keep on loving her pyramids
and cones, and teaching algebraic riddles, until
she dies. Knowledge will always look so dig-
nified that she will frighten men away. Father
exclaimed to me, when he met her, 'What
a lovely, calm, classical face I ' I said, 'Yes,
that is our Knowledge all over.' And you can
imagine how I felt when she opened those
dignified lips of hers and remarked conversa-
tionally, « Say! Is n't it hot as hot? * "
The girls laughed at poor Knowledge, and
the cruel Infant continued to read the future.
" Well, all of us will get presentation copies
12 HOME FROM COLLEGE
of Bab's great work, even I, who will be making
home happy 'if no onecomes to marry me1 " —
" 'And I don't see why they should,' " fin-
ished Barbara, cuttingly. She rapped the In-
spired Soothsayer on her fluffy head with a
curtain-rod.
" Your mind runs on matrimony to a dis-
gusting extent, Infant," she warned. " I shall
never marry unless I can carry on my writ-
ing."
"And be a second Mrs. Jellyby?" inquired
her friend. "All right; I'll come to live with
you and keep the little Jellybys out of the
gravy while you unveil the characters of some
Horace and Viola to the admiring world.
Oh, girls I The fudge is gone, and it's twelve
o'clock, and even my eyelids will not stay
apart much longer."
The girls rose slowly from their improvised
chairs, and stood together, half-unconsciously
taking note of the dear, familiar room in its
dismantled, unfamiliar condition. Out in the
corridorafew unseen classmates began to sing,
M Gaudeanuw igitur, juvenes dam sumus — "
ALMA MATER 13
" What on earth are they gaudeamusing
about to-night?" growled the Infant; but no
one answered her.
They stood looking at each other in silence.
"Some of you I won't see again," said
Barbara, in a wavering voice. " My train goes
so early. Dear, dear Sphinxy, — and Ata-
lanta — "
An odd, snuffling sound caused her to look
around. "The Infant's crying!" she ex-
claimed.
The Infant threw her arms about Barbara's
neck. " I guess I have feelings," she sobbed,
" if I did try to make things cheerful. Don't
forget me, Babbie dear, for I do love you
astonishingly, and expect great things from
you."
Barbara hurried blindly down the corridor,
with the faithful House Plant beside her. At
the end she turned, and faintly saw the four
white figures still watching her. They were
looking their last at their beloved companion,
the girl whose strength of character and in-
stinctive leadership had first attracted, then
14 HOME FROM COLLEGE
held them together, through four eventful
years at college.
Barbara waved her handkerchief at the
silent figures, and her head dropped on her
room-mate's shoulder as they neared their
familiar door.
"Oh, Helen dear 1" she sobbed. "How can
we ever leave this college ? "
CHAPTER II
HOME
THE Overland Passenger was clank-
ing its way across the prairies of
the middle West Barbara, sitting
on one of the stuffy red-plush seats, pressed
her face against the window-pane, and looked
out into the night There was little to see,
— the long, monotonous stretches of land,
cloaked in shadows, with dim lights showing
from a few farmhouses, and a wide expanse of
sky, freckled with stars, above. But Barbara
was nearing home, and the dull pain which
had been with her since the last good-bys at
college was forgotten, as her eyes drank in
every familiar detail of the shadowy landscape.
Above the purr and hiss of the engine sounded
the jerky refrain of the rails, and the girPs
heart echoed the words.
" Near-home, near-home," it throbbed.
The noise of the train deepened as the piers
16 HOME FROM COLLEGE
of a bridge flashed by. A porter with a lighted
lantern passed through the car, and a travel-
ing agent in the seat ahead began to gather
up his hand-baggage. But Barbara still gazed
out of the window, over the great piles of
pine that marked the boundary of the Auburn
lumber-yard, towards a dim light that shone
down from the hill.
"Auburn, Auburn! This way out," called
the brakeman.
A thin, gray man stood at the steps of the
car almost before the wheels ceased to move.
His voice and his hands went up simultane-
ously.
" Hel-lo, litde girt," he said to Barbara.
" Dear old Dad I " said Barbara to him.
" We '11 have to trust to the livery," said
Dr. Grafton. " Maud S. has had a hard day,
and I did n't have the heart to have her har-
nessed again to-night"
" There 's a rummage-sale hat," laughed
Barbara, as a driver in a shabby suit of livery
and an ill-fitting top hat approached for her
baggage checks.
HOME 17
Auburn knew naught of cabs. A " hack
line," including perhaps three dozen car-
riages which had passed beyond the wed-
ding and funeral stage, attended passengers
to and from the railway station. In a spirit
of metropolitanism which seized the town at
rare intervals, the proprietors of the "line"
had decided to livery their drivers. So they
had attended a rummage sale, given by the
women members of an indigent church, and
had purchased therefrom every top hat in
sight, regardless of size, shape, or vintage.
These they had distributed among their driv-
ers in an equally reckless and care-free way.
Auburn, as a whole, had not yet ceased to
thrill with pride at her liveried service ; but
those of her inhabitants who happened to be
blessed with a sense of humor experienced a
sensation other than that of pride, upon be-
holding the pompous splendor of Banker
Willowby's last season's hat held in place
by the eyebrows of Peanuts Barker, or Piety
Sanborn's decorous beaver perched upon the
manly brow of Spike Hannegan.
18 HOME FROM COLLEGE
The mutual enjoyment of this other sen-
sation renewed the old feeling of fellowship
between Barbara and her father.
" It 's good to have you back, Girl," he said.
Barbara crept a bit closer. "It 's good to be
here," she answered.
The Grafton house stood at the top of the
longest hill in Auburn, and it was ten minutes
more before the carriage stopped at the maple
tree in front of the doctor's home. The elec-
tric lights of Auburn, for economical reasons,
were put out upon the arrival of the moon,
and it was still and dark when the two started
up the walk together. The stars hung low
near the horizon, a sleepy bird was talking to
himself in the willow tree, and the air was full
of the bitter-sweet of cherry blossoms. A little
gray, shaggy dog came bounding over the
terrace to meet them, and the doorway was
full of children's heads.
Barbara's mother stood on the front porch.
Her eyes were soft and full, and her face was
the glad-sorry kind. She did not say a word,
only opened her arms, and the girl went in.
HOME 19
The children's greetings were characteris-
tic Eighteen-year-old Jack added a hearty
smack to his " Hello, Barb " ; David laid a
pale little cheek against his sister's glowing
one ; and the Kid thrust his school report into
Barbara's hand, and inquired in eager tones
what gifts were forthcoming. Only one mem-
ber of the family circle was absent
" Gassy 's gone to bed," exclaimed Jack.
" She 's got a grouch."
" I have not," retorted an aggressive voice.
" Hello, Barbara." A thin little girl of eleven,
in a nightgown, her head covered with bumps
of red hair wrapped about kid-curlers, seized
Barbara from behind. There was a vigorous
hug, which sent a thrill of surprise to the
big sister's heart, and Gassy became her own
undemonstrative self again.
"Gee, you ought to see how you look I"
said Jack.
" You ought not, 'cause 't would make you
unhappy," retorted Gassy.
" I should think you ! 'd feel unhappy, sleep-
ing on that tiara of bumps. Uneasy lies the
20 HOME FROM COLLEGE
head that wears a crown. You look just like
a tomato-worm."
"Careful, Jack," cautioned his father.
But the warning came too late. The small
girl rushed at her tormentor, leapt upon him,
and thrust a cold little hand inside of his gray
sweater.
" There, there, children, don't squabble be-
fore Barbara ; she 's forgotten that you are not
always friends," said Mrs. Grafton. "Run back
to bed, Cecilia; you '11 take cold. The rest of
us are going, too. It 's long past bedtime."
Barbara had expected to find the first nights
away from her college room lonely ones; but
the big four-poster, ugly as it had always
seemed to her, was an improvement upon the
cot that was a divan by day and a bed by
night Blessed, too, was the silence that was
almost noisy, out-of-doors, and the good-
night pat of the mother, as she tucked her
firstling in. It was good, after all, to be at
home, and good, too, that she could be of use
there. Her last thought was of the new green
carpet in the sitting-room below.
HOME 21
" It 's an outrage on aesthetics, that shade,"
she said to herself. "I wish mother hadn't
bought it until I got home. They do need
me here."
"It's the same old place," said Barbara,
at four o'clock the next afternoon, " the same
dear, old, sleepy place. Aside from the fact
that I find some more tucks let down in gowns
and some more inches added to trousers each
year, I don't think Auburn changes anything
— even her mind — from going-away time to
coming-home time. Procrastination is the
spice of life, here."
"The things that keep a town awake are
usually sent away to college," said her mother,
slyly. " But Auburn is solid, as well as con-
servative."
"It's pitifully, painfully solid," said Barbara.
" If it only realized its own deficiencies, there
would be hope for it But it is always so com-
placent and contented with itself. The road
that leads up the hill to Dyer's Corner is
characteristic of the whole town. Some man
22 HOME FROM COLLEGE
with plenty of time on his hands — or for his
feet — ambled along up the hill in the begin-
ning of things, and for fifty years the people
have followed his long, devious path, rather
than branch out and originate another easier.
I believe that any sign of progress, civic or
intellectual, would cut Auburn to the quick,
— if there is any quick to cut, in the town."
" Have n't you noted the fine schedule on
our electric-car line ? " laughed her mother.
" That 's just what I was thinking of. I
commented on the improved time that the
cars make to Miss Bates, this morning. To my
surprise she stiffened at once. ' You ain't the
first to make complaint/ she said. 'There
ain't no need of running a street-car like a
fire-engine; and they say that since this new
schedule has been fixed, the conductors won't
deliver dinner-pails to the factory men, or
hold the car for you while you go on a short
errand. Auburn ain't going to tolerate that'
Does n't that sound just like Miss Bates, and
like Auburn ? "
" That 's right ; run down Auburn," said
HOME 23
Jack, tossing his strap of school-books on a
chair, and hanging his capon the rubber-plant
" You '11 make yourself good and popular
if you go about expressing opinions like that
in public Auburn was good enough for Airy
Fairy Lilian in high-school days, but having
received four years of 'culchaw,' and a starter
on the alphabet to add to her name, the ple-
beian ways of the old home-place jar her
nerves. I like your loyalty, Mistress Barbara ! "
" That is totally uncalled for, Jack," said
Barbara. " I like Auburn as much as you do.
But it 's not an intellectual affection. I can't
help seeing, in spite of my love for it, that
the town is raw and Western, — and painfully
crude."
" An intellectual affection ! That 's as bad
as a hygienic plum-pudding," groaned Jack.
" If I did n't have to go out to coach the foot-
ball team in five minutes, I would sit down
and express my sympathy at the stultifying
life which you must lead for the next sixty
years. Unless, of course, we marry you off.
There is always that alternative."
24 HOME FROM COLLEGE
" I hope you are going to be contented,
dear," said Mrs. Grafton, as her tall son re-
1 lieved the rubber-plant of its burden, and
j clattered noisily out of the room. " I realize
j that after four years of the jolly intercourse
j you have had with the girls, and the grow-
ing college life, we must seem slow and pro-
saic to you here; nothing much happens
when you are away. Of course, I don't miss
things as much as you will. / ym used to the
old slow way, and besides, I 'm too busy to
have time to think of what is lacking. But I
don't want you to be hungry for what is not
The happiest thing I've had to think about,
all these four years, has been your home-
coming, but I 've been a little worried about
your coming, sometimes. Do you think you
are going to be contented with us ? "
Barbara's answer was judicial. "Why, yes,
I think so," she said. " Of course I shall miss
the college life, and the intellectual stimulus I
had there, but I'm going to work hard, too.
All the theories I learned at Vassar are just
ready to be put into practice, and I have so
HOME 25
much to give the world that I can hardly wait
to take my pen in hand. Oh, I am so glad,
mother, that my life-work is laid out for me.
I tell you frankly that I never could stand
living in Auburn if I were not busy. The sor-
didness of the workers, and the pettiness
of the idlers, would make me desperate. But
I shall go to work at once, and write — write
— all the things I have been longing to give
utterance to for four years."
"But you can't write all the time," said
Mrs. Grafton.
"No, I don't intend to. There are other
things to do. There has never been any or-
ganized philanthropy in Auburn, and there
is plenty of work for somebody in that line.
I hope, too, that I may fall in with some con-
genial people who will care to do some regular,
systematic study with me, — though I suppose
they will be hard to find in a town of this size.
Then, too, I thought that I might help Susan."
Mrs. Grafton's busy needle flew as she
talked. "How, dear?"
"Oh, in her studies. Susan and I kept
26 HOME FROM COLLEGE
together in high-school days, and I think that
it has always been a tragedy in her life that
she couldn't have a college education. She
has a fine mind, — not original, you know, but
clear-thinking, — and she loves study. Poor
girl, I can help her so much. And of course
it will be a mental stimulus to me, too."
" I 'm afraid Susan won't have time."
"Why, what is she doing?"
"Housework," replied her mother. "She
is cooking, and caring for her father and
brothers, and she does it well, too."
"What a shame!"
"What, to do it well?"
"You know what I mean, you wicked
mother. A shame to let all that mental ability
go to waste, while the pots and pans are
being scoured. It does n't take brains to do
housework."
«.' Does n't it ! " sighed Mrs. Grafton; " I find,
all the time, that it takes much more than I
possess. When it comes to the problems of
how to let down Cecilia's tucks without show-
ing, how to vary the steak-chops diet that
HOME 27
we grow so tired of, and how to decrease the
gas-bills, I feel my mental inferiority. I'm
glad that you have come home with new
ideas ; we need them, dear."
A voice rose from the foot of the stairs
below, — a shrill soprano voice, that skipped
the scale from C to C, and back again to A.
"That's Ellen," said Mrs. Grafton, laying
down her sewing with a sigh. " I can't teach
her to come to me when she wants me. She
says that she doesn't mind messages if she
can 'holler 'em,' but she 'won't climb stairs
fer Mrs. Roosevelt hetrself.' I suppose I '11 have
to go down."
"What does she want?"
"That's what makes it interesting: you
never know. Perhaps an ironing-sheet, or the
key to the fruit-closet Maybe the plumber
has come, or the milkman is to be paid, or
the telephone is ringing. Or possibly a book-
agent has made his appearance. She always
keeps it a mystery until I get down."
" I don't see how on earth you live in that
way. I never could get anything done."
2& HOME FROM COLLEGE
Ml don't accomplish much," sighed her
mother. "The days ought to be three times as
long, to hold all the things they bring to be
done. My life is like the mother's bag in the
' Swiss Family Robinson.9 "
" I can't work that way," said Barbara. " It's
ruinous to any continuity of thought I sup-
pose that means that I '11 have to shut myself
up in my room to write."
Mis. Grafton had gone downstairs.
" I don't see how mother can stand it," said
the girl to herself. " Two telephone calls, an
interview with the butcher, a stop to tie up
David's finger, a hunt for father's lost letter,
some money to be sent down to the vegetable
man, and two calls to the front door, — that
makes eight interruptions in the last hour. If
she would only systematize things, so she
would n't be disturbed, she would n't look so
tired as she does. There ought not to be so
much work in this house."
She glanced around the big, homey-look-
ing living-room, through the door into the
narrow, old-fashioned hall, and beyond, into
HOME 29
the sunny dining-room. The house was an
old one ; the furnishing, though comfortable,
showed the signs of hard usage and disorder.
An umbrella reposed on the couch, Jack's
football mask lay on the table, and her moth-
er's ravelings littered the floor. A hetero-
geneous collection of battered animals occu-
pied the window-sill, and a pile of the doctor's
memoranda was thrust under the clock.
"I don't wonder that things stray away
here," she added, " with no one to pick them
up but mother. She ought to insist upon or-
derliness from each member of the family, and
save herself. I'm afraid that her over-work
is partly her own fault"
" Another mishap," said her mother, as she
picked up her sewing on entering the room.
" The gas-stove this time. Ellen can't make it
burn, and I 've had to telephone the gas-man.
Her baking is just under way, too, and I '11
have to send out for some bread for supper.
I hate to ask you to do it, dear, this first day,
but I 'm afraid that Jack won't be back in time
to go."
30 HOME FROM COLLEGE
" Where shall I go ? To Miss Pettibone's ? "
" Yes ; my purse is on the table. Get a loaf
of bread and some cookies, and anything
else that would be good for supper. The
meal is likely to be a slim one."
Miss Pettibone's tiny front room took the
place of a delicatessen shop in Auburn. She
was a little, brown, fat acorn of a woman, who
had been wooed in her unsuspicious middle
age by a graceless young vagabond, who had
brightened her home for six weeks and then
departed, carrying with him the little old
maid's heart, and the few thousand dollars
which represented her capital. She was of the
type of woman who would feel more grief
than rage at such faithlessness, and she re-
fused to allow her recreant lover to be traced.
After the first shock was over, she turned to
her one accomplishment as a means of live-
lihood, and produced for sale such delicious
bread, such delectable tarts, such marvelous
cakes and cookies, that all Auburn profited
by the absence of the rogue. She did catering
in a small way, and sometimes, as an especial
HOME 31
favor, serving ; and the sight of Miss Pettibone
in a stiff white apron, with a shiny brass tray
under her arm, going into a side entrance,
was as sure a sign of a party within, as Jap-
anese lanterns on the front porch, or an order
for grapefruit at the grocer's. The tragedy of
her life had not embittered her, and all the grief
that she had stirred into her cakes was as
little noticeable in the light loaves as the evi-
dences of sorrow in her intercourse with the
world. Optimism was the yeast of her hard
little life, and had raised her to the sound-
ness and sweetness of her own bread.
There was no one in the shop as Barbara
swung the door open and set a-jingle the bell
at the top. But there was encouragement in
the sight of a spicy gingerbread, some small
yellow patty-cakes, some sugary crullers, and
a pot of brown baked beans, in the glass-cov-
ered counter. Miss Pettibone came bustling
into the room at the sound of the bell.
" Why, Barbara Grafton," she said delight-
edly ; "you, of all people ! When did you get
back?"
32 HOME FROM COLLEGE
"Last night," answered Barbara.
" Well, I declare ! If I 'm not glad to see
you! You haven't changed a mite, — even
to get taller. I guess you 've got your growth
now. You spindled a good deal while you
was stretching, but you seem to be fleshing
up now."
" I 'm always a vulgarly healthy person,"
said Barbara. " But how about you ? How is
the rheumatism ? "
u It 's in its place when the roll is called.
I Ve had a lame shoulder all spring."
" 1 'm sorry about that"
"Well, you don't need to be. That 's one of
the things that make dying easy. Providence
was pretty kind when she began to invent
aches and pains. Just think how hard it would
be to step off, if you had to go when you was
perfect physically. But that ain't the usual
way, thank goodness I All of the rheumatic
shoulders, and bad backs, and poor sights,
and failing memories, are just stones that
pave the road to dying. I guess that's what
St Paul meant when he said, ' We die daily.'
HOME 33
But you don't look as though you had begun,
yet"
" College food seems to agree with me, Miss
Pettibone, but it's not like your baking. I 've
come for a loaf of bread, and to carry off that
pot of beans."
" You can have the bread, child, but not the
beans; they was sold hours ago."
" Too bad," sighed Barbara. " Give me the
gingerbread."
" I 'm sorry, but that 's sold, too."
" Why do you keep them, then ? "
" I always ask my customers to leave them,
if they ain't in any hurry for them. It keeps
my shop full, and besides, it makes folks that
come in late see what they 've missed. I no-
tice that the minute a sold sign goes on a
thing, it raises its value with most people.
Barbara, it does my heart good to see you
back again."
" I 'm glad to be back, too. How much are
the little cakes?"
" Are you, my dear ? Well, I *m glad to
hear you say so. Twenty cents a dozen. Do
34 HOME FROM COLLEGE
you want them right away ? You see, going
away from home spoils lots of young folks,
these days. Sending 'em away is like teach-
ing them to tell time when they 're children.
Of course it 's a matter of education, but after
that they're always on the outlook to see
if the clock is fast or slow. And most of the
young people who go away to college find it
pretty slow in Auburn. I'm glad that you
ain't going to be discontented."
Barbara looked guilty. She did not want
to accept undeserved praise, and yet it was
hard to be frank without being impolite.
"Of course I expect to miss college life,
Miss Pettibone," she began.
"Dear me, yes. I know what that will
mean to you. Why, after I came back from
Maine, twenty years ago, I was as lonesome
for sea-air as though it had been a person.
To this day I long for the tang of that salt
wind. That's why I use whale-oil soap —
because the smell of the suds reminds me of
the sea. Of course you 're going to miss col-
lege, Barbara."
HOME 35
"I shall try to keep so busy that I won't
have time to be lonely," said Barbara.
" That 's the right spirit It won't be hard
to do, either, in your house. Your family is
a large one, and your mother is put to it to do
everything. Gassy ain't old enough yet to be
of much help, and it 's easier to keep a secret
than a girl, in Auburn. I guess she '11 be glad
to have you here to pitch in. It's a good
thing that you like housework."
" I 'm afraid I don't know much about it
Housekeeping is not my forte. Of course I
shall help mother, but I don't intend to do
that kind of work to the exclusion of all other.
I intend to save the best of myself for my
writing."
Miss Pettibone looked properly awed.
" Well, it 's a wonderful thing to be able to
write. I always said that you 'd be an author-
ess, when I used to see those school composi-
tions of yours that the ' Conservative ' used
to print Why, Barbara, you come in here
once when you was in Kindergarten school,
and you set down on my front window-sill,
36 HOME FROM COLLEGE
and you says, * Miss Pettibone,' you says,
4 1 ' ve written a pome.' And I says, ' Good
fer you, Barbara, let's hear it.' So you
smoothed down your white apron, and re-
cited it to me. ' It *s about my mother/ you
says ; ' and this is it : —
* Oh, Mrs. Grafton,' said Miss Gray,
1 Oh, do your children run away ? •
* Oh, no,' said she, 'they never do ;
Because I always use my shoe.'
Then when you was through you explained
to me that your ma did n't really whip you.
You just had to put in that part about the
shoe to make it rhyme, you said. You was an
awful old-fashioned child, Barbara ! "
" My poetry was of about the same quality
then that it is now," laughed Barbara. " I '11
take the bread and the cakes with me, Miss
Pettibone. This is like old Auburn days. I
have n't carried a loaf of bread on the street
since I left home."
" Well, paper bundles with the steam rising
from them ain't very swell, but sometimes the
insides makes it worth while," said the little
HOME 37
.baker. " Come in and see me often, Barbara,
when it ain't an errand. And give my love to
your mother. She has n't been looking well
lately, seems to me."
Barbara smiled her good-by, and the litde
bell jingled merrily as the door swung shut
" It's always good to see Miss Pettibone,"
she said to herself as she started up the quiet
street "She belongs in a story-book, — a
litde fat one with cheery red covers. It is queer
about her, too. She is as provincial as any
one in Auburn, and yet she is never common-
place."
At the corner she encountered another of
the characters of Auburn. This was Mrs. Kot-
ferschmidt, the old German woman, whose
husband had been for years the proprietor of
the one boat-livery of the town. He had died
during the past winter, and Barbara, meeting
the widow, stopped to offer her condolences.
The old boatman had taught her to swim and
to row, and her expressions of sympathy were
genuine.
11 Mother wrote me about your loss," she
38 HOME FROM COLLEGE
said. " I was so sorry to hear about Mr. Kbt-
ferschmidt."
The old lady rustled in her crape, buj the
stolid face in the black bonnet showed no
sign of emotion.
"Oh, you don't need to mind that," she
said politely. " He was getting old, anyways.
In the spring I hired me a stronger man to
help me mit the boats."
Mrs. Kotferschmidt was the only passer
Barbara met on her way home. Chestnut
Street was practically deserted. The school-
children's procession had passed, and the
business-men's brigade had not yet started
to move. The shaded avenue, with its green
arch of trees overhead, stretched its quiet,
leisurely way from Miss Pettibone's shop to
the Grafton house. A shaft of red sun cut its
way through the thick leaves, and covered
with a glorified light the square, substantial
houses that bordered the road. A few chil-
dren played upon the street, a dog was tak-
ing an undisturbed siesta on the sidewalk,
and three snowy pigeons were cooing softly
HOME 39
as they strutted along the gutter. It was all
pretty and peaceful, but quiet, desperately
quiet. Barbara's thoughts went back to the
college campus, crowded with chattering stu-
dents, leisurely professors, hurrying messen-
ger-boys, and busy employees, and full of
activity at this hour. What if the Sphinx
could see her now, or the Infant, or the dear
House Plant, with that plebeian loaf of
bread under her arm, on that deserted Western
road? She knew what they would say; she
could almost feel their glances of pity. Oh, it
was a misfortune to be born in a place like
Auburn, — a stultifying, crude, middle- west-
ern town. She choked down a lump in her
throat that threatened her.
" I must get to work," she thought. "Soon,
— soon! I shall never be able to exist in
Auburn, if I give myself time to think about
it."
CHAPTER III
THE THEORY OF PHILOSOPHY
IT was eight o'clock on a warm morning
in June, a few days after Barbara's return.
She rose from the table, where she had
been breakfasting in solitude, and sought her
mother.
It was not easy to find her. The girl looked
into the kitchen, passed through her father's
office, and ran upstairs to Mrs. Grafton's
chamber — all without result
"Jack!" she called, stopping at the door
of her brother's room, and severely regard-
ing the recumbent figure in bed. " Jack ! I 'd
be ashamed of lying in bed so late I Where's
mother?"
A muffled groan, a tossing of the long
swathed figure — and silence.
" Jack I Tell me at least, if you know where
she is."
The swathed figure rose up in majesty, and
THE THEORY OF PHILOSOPHY 41
a pair of half-open, sleepy eyes became visible
in a yawning face.
" Well, I '11 be hanged ! " said Jack. " If you
didn't actually wake me up to ask where
mother is. What do you think I am ! A su-
pernatural dreamer, with visions of everything
mother does floating around my bed ? Think
I can see all over the house with my eyes
shut?"
Jack flounced back, and recomposed his
long limbs for slumber.
" You ought to be up, anyway, by this time,"
declared Barbara, eyeing him with cold disap-
proval. " There are plenty of things that you
could do to help."
She walked down the stairs, puzzling over
the strange lack of system that she saw every-
where about her. There was Jack, lying at
his ease in his room, with a superb disregard
of responsibilities. She caught a glimpse of
Gassy sitting in the dusty, disorderly library,
reading the story from which she had been
forcibly separated the evening before at bed-
time. And finally, as she reentered the din-
42 HOME FROM COLLEGE
ing-room, she stumbled over the Kid, who
was arranging plates, taken from the uncleared
dining-table, in a neat line on the carpet.
" Don't upset my ships ! " he roared, as
Barbara unconsciously crunched a butter-plate
under her erring tread.
She stared in horror at the debris; then,
sweeping the plates up, to the accompaniment
of shrieks from the youngest Grafton, she sat
down on a chair and took her struggling little
brother on her lap.
" Charles Grafton, listen to me I " she said
firmly but not angrily, remembering the ped-
agogic articles on "Anger and the Child/'
and the extracts which had filled a large
college note-book. "Charles I What do you
mean by doing such a dreadful thing as this?
Answer, immediately."
It was while she was trying to understand
his stormy articulations that Mrs. Grafton ap-
peared, and sank down wearily in a chair near
the door. The Kid immediately wriggled from
his sister and ran to his mother, weeping.
" Just see what this boy has donel " cried Bar-
THE THEORY OF PHILOSOPHY 43
bara. " I picked up half these plates from the
floor. I never saw such a child! This table ought
to have been cleared long ago, anyway."
" Ellen can't clear the table until breakfast
is over/' said Mrs. Grafton, soothing the
little boy in her arms. "Your father, Cecilia,
Charles, and I had our breakfast as usual at
quarter after seven. I imagine that Ellen was
waiting for you to finish. Moreover, the gas-
man came to look at the meter in the cellar,
and she and I both went down with him. I
just came up from there."
Mrs. Grafton's face settled into weary lines,
and she sighed heavily. But Barbara did not
notice. She was looking at the new egg-stain
on the Wilton rug.
" Mother," she said, in her fresh, energetic
voice, "I really do think things might be
managed more systematically here than they
actually are. You know that, if there is one
thing that we learn at college, it is the need
of system. Now see here I " Barbara rose,
and began to pace back and forth over the
egg-stain. "We rise at six-thirty, an absurdly
44 HOME FROM COLLEGE
early hour, though perhaps necessitated by
the work of a large family — "
"Yes," interposed her mother, smiling
through her pallor. "We all rise at half-past
six."
Barbara flushed. " Now, mother ! " she said.
"I know I haven't done it these few days
since I came home, but that was accidental.
It shall not happen again. And Jack is dread-
ful about getting up ! "
" Well," said Mrs. Grafton, this 'system ' ? "
" Oh, yes. We should ris§ and finish break-
fast by quarter-past eight. Then let Ellen do
the dishes, of course, and all the work in the
kitchen. Then make Jack get up and do the
outside work, the lawns, sweeping the porches,
and so forth, to get it out of the way early.
Cecilia, — how I hate that nickname Gassy!
— Cecilia ought to do her share. She should
be taught to keep her room in order, and the
library too, I think."
" I won't 1 " shouted an excitable little voice
from the next room.
" Don't talk that way, Cecilia," called Bar-
THE THEORY OF PHILOSOPHY 45
bara. " You '11 never improve, if you don't do
something in this world."
"Why don't you do something, then?"
retorted the voice, "instead of telling mother
how to run the house? "
A smile flickered upon Mrs. Grafton's pale
face, and died in another sigh. Barbara rose
and shut the dining-room door.
" Now I " — she resumed — " I will guar-
antee to keep the lower floor looking fresh
and clean, — not doing the sweeping, of course ;
and I will take care of my own room and Jack's
also. That will probably occupy me until half-
past nine, after which I must spend my time
until twelve in writing every minute, undis-
turbed. In this way, you see, we shall each
have our own individual work, — David and
the Kid being allowed to play, — and your
burden will be considerably lessened. And all
through a little application of system."
" System ! " echoed her mother, mechani-
cally allowing Charles to slip from her lap.
"Yes," said Barbara. "That leaves your
room and David's and the ordering for you."
46 HOME FROM COLLEGE
" My room, and David's, and the ordering,"
repeated Mrs. Grafton.
"Why, yes," Barbara responded, looking
curiously at her mother. " What is the matter,
dear ? You look so queer and white. Are n't
you well ? "
" Oh, yes," replied Mrs. Grafton. " Here is
Susan coming to see you. Keep her out on
the porch, Barbara, there is so much to do in
the house."
Left alone, Mrs. Grafton's eyes filled, and
her lips began to twitch nervously. " So much
to do ! " she repeated. She put her handker-
chief up to her shaking lips. "What am I cry-
ing for?" she asked herself sternly. " I never
used to be so foolish." But her eyes kept fill-
ing and her lips twitching. She had a feeling
that she was allowing herself to be weak.
Then a sense of hopelessness in a domestic
universe seemed to rise up and overwhelm
her, and she wept again.
Suddenly she rose and hurried from the
room, as she caught the sound of Jack's boots
on the stairs.
THE THEORY OF PHILOSOPHY 47
" I 'm so glad to see you ! " cried Barbara,
pushing forward the best porch-chair to re-
ceive her guest. " And I 'm especially glad
that you came so early, for I shall be inac-
cessible after ten o'clock. My literary hours
begin then."
Susan fanned herself. "I just stopped a
minute on my way to get some sewing-silk,"
she said, " but I could n't help trying to get a
glimpse of you again. How fresh and at lei-
sure you look, Babbie. All your work done
so soon ? "
" No-o," answered Barbara, a slight blush
making her confession charming. "The fact
is, Sue, I got up later than usual this morn-
ing, for some reason, and mother and I have
been taking our time in discussing a new
system of housekeeping, by which I am to
lighten mother's labors considerably."
Susan looked wistful as she rocked back
and forth. " I suppose your college training
makes you accommodate yourself to all cir-
cumstances," she said. " It must be hard to
have to come to every-day living like this,
48 HOME FROM COLLEGE
after all the advantages you have had I be-
lieve you know enough theory to fit into any
situation."
" Oh, no," interposed Barbara, " not every
one."
"And all these four years," went on Susan,
her sweet face sobering, "I have just been
doing housework, and trying to take dear
mother's place. My life has been bounded by
dishpans and darning-cotton, and my associ-
ates have been housemaids and dressmakers.
I have n't improved at all."
" Now you are fishing 1 " rejoined Barbara.
" I must say, Susan, that as for not being a
college girl, you show it less than any other
girl I ever saw."
" You flatter me," declared Susan. " And oh,
Barbara, I want to say that it 's awfully sweet
of you to be willing to read with me an hour
every day. It will help me ever so much, to
get your trained point of view about things.
I am so immature in my mental judgments, I
know."
11 1 am only too glad to help you," said
THE THEORY OF PHILOSOPHY 49
Barbara, heartily. " And really, Sue, you are
a godsend to me, for you are the only girl in
town that is congenial to me at all."
Susan looked pleased. "That's kind of
you," she answered. " Well, I must not keep
you from helping your mother. By the way,
how is she to-day? Everybody is saying how
tired and worn out she looks, and is glad that
you have come to share her burdens."
" Why, mother 's all right," replied Bar-
bara. " How people will talk and gossip about
nothing I Good-by, Sue dear. Take some
roses on the way out And let 's begin read-
ing to-morrow."
She paused a moment on the porch, look-
ing with appreciative eyes at the pretty lawn,
with its wealth of gay-colored nasturtiums
and roses. As she passed through the hall,
her eyes fell upon Gassy, still curled up in the
chair, and absorbed in her book.
"Cecilia!" called Barbara, with all the au-
thority of an elder sister. "You have done
nothing all morning. Take the duster and
dust the living-room immediately."
50 HOME FROM COLLEGE
The little girl's legs kicked convulsively in
protest. "Oh-h, how I hate you, Barbara I"
she cried abstractedly. " I 've only eight pages
more."
"Nearly ten o'clock!" sighed the girl, as
she mounted the stairs to her room. " I shan't
get much done to-day."
She made her bed with resigned patience,
pinned an " Engaged " sign on her door, and
fell to work. But even through the closed
door came the busy sounds of an active house-
hold. A thump, thump, thump of the furniture
downstairs in the living-room proclaimed that
a vigorous sweeping was going on ; the mad-
dening click-click-clash outside drew her to
the window to behold Jack sulkily guiding
the lawn-mower. Just below her came the
measured hum of the sewing-machine, and
Barbara remembered, with a guilty start, that
she had promised to finish those sheets her-
self, the day before. Finally, the sound of a toy
drum and the martial tramp of little feet in the
hall outside her door nerved her to action.
"What are you doing, children?" she
THE THEORY OF PHILOSOPHY 51
cried, putting her head out through the door
in despair.
David and the Kid stopped marching simul-
taneously, and eyed their big sister. "I'm
Teddy Roosevelt," said David, mildly, " and
the Kid is all my Rough Riders."
"Well, you must not ride here," declared
Barbara. "You are disturbing me and I can't
write. Go downstairs and play, — right away.
You must not annoy me again."
She shut her door, cutting a yell from the
Kid into two sections. The martial sounds
died away, and she was free to resume her
thoughts. Their continuity seemed broken,
however. It was some time before she took
up her work again.
About an hour afterwards, as Barbara, with
pleased expression and a flying pen, was half
way through an enthusiastically philosophic
peroration, she was disturbed by a sudden
jar, as if some heavy weight had fallen, shak-
ing her chair considerably. In a minute, foot-
steps sounded outside again, and some one
timidly opened her door. It was David.
52 HOME FROM COLLEGE
" Mother — " he began.
" I cannot be disturbed ! " cried Barbara,
frantically, waving her pen. "Run away,
David ; I simply must not be talked to ! "
The little fellow, with a scared look, obeyed,
and Barbara was once more left alone. It was
not the conglomeration of sounds which now
annoyed her, — it was the utter absence of the
noises to which she had grown accustomed.
The hum of the sewing-machine had abrupdy
ceased, and a sudden cry of "Jack, come
here, quick!" had stopped the teasing whir
of the grass-cutter. To Barbara there was
something ominous in the sudden cessation.
"Well, it's nearly twelve, anyway," she
exclaimed, shutting up her desk. " I '11 give
up for this morning."
She opened her door and went downstairs.
No one in the halls; no one in the living-
room. She turned toward the kitchen, but was
arrested by the sound of her father's voice
coming from the sewing-room, — his voice,
but strange, low, unnatural.
" There, Jack ! That 's enough water.
THE THEORY OF PHILOSOPHY 53
Slowly, Ellen. Stop crying, Charles. Mo-
ther's all right."
Barbara reached the door in one bound.
" What — " she began, and stopped, while her
shocked eyes took in the scene before her.
In a frightened, huddled group near her
stood Gassy, David, and the Kid, staring at
their mother, who lay on the floor perfecdy
quiet Jack and Ellen stood by, with water
and cloths, and the doctor was gendy spong-
ing away the blood from a cut on Mrs. Graf-
ton's temple. No one spoke to Barbara or
noticed her.
As she crossed over, brushing the children
from her path, her father looked up and saw
the alarmed look on her face. "Your mo-
ther fainted, that 's all," he said reassuringly.
"She fell from the sewing-machine and cut
herself. But she will be all right soon ! "
Mrs. Grafton opened her eyes and faindy
smiled.
"O mother dear!" cried Barbara. "O
mother! It is my fault! I said I would do
those sheets yesterday."
54 HOME FROM COLLEGE
Mrs. Grafton began to cry. " I don't want
to hear about sheets," she sobbed weakly.
" No, dear, no, dear, you need n't," soothed
the doctor, motioning Barbara away.
It was a new sensation to Barbara to stand
back, while the doctor carried Mrs. Grafton
upstairs to her room, and, aided only slighdy,
put her to bed. Mechanically she did as or-
dered, and followed her father out of the
room, when her mother had fallen asleep, with
a feeling that the end of the world had come,
and that "system " had deserted the universe.
"Yes, it is a nervous break-down," said the
'doctor, throwing himself into an easy-chair
in the living-room. "I might have known
that it would come, with the crushing weight
of this household on her delicate shoulders.
But your mother is so brave and bright that
I did n't realize what she has been doing."
"And of course I've been away," sighed
Barbara.
" Well, she must go away now," said Dr.
Grafton, with determination. "A complete
rest and change she must have, as soon as
THE THEORY OF PHILOSOPHY 55
possible. And Barbara, my girl, you '11 have
to take the helm."
"Oh, I will," she cried confidently. "I can
and will gladly. I won't let it crush me. I '11
reduce it all to a science."
"H'm," said her father. "This science is
not taught at Vassar. However, I don't see
what else we can do. And your mother must
go at once."
Barbara lost her sense of the logical con-
tinuity of events during the next few days.
Packing, planning, consoling small brothers,
encouraging her mother, who was inclined to
rebellion, — the minutes and hours flew. Be-
fore she realized, she stood one morning on
the front porch with her arms around the
sobbing Kid, resolutely forcing a smile, while
she waved a cheerful farewell to the departing
phaeton, containing a very pale mother and
a very determined-looking father.
" Good-by, mother dear ! " called little David,
winking away his tears. " Come back soon."
" Come back well / " added Barbara, cheer-
fully.
CHAPTER IV
THE PRACTICE
MAUD S. lengthened her measured
tread an infinitesimally small dis-
tance, in response to the doctor's
impatient command. But she did it sorrow-
fully, and with the air of yielding to a child's
whim. Maud S. had been born and brought
up in Auburn, and she had been educated to
a stern sense of the proprieties. It was right
and proper to forego appearances, and even
to abandon one's dignity, if necessary, upon
a call of mercy ; but a trip to the station, with
a trunk aboard, and a feeble passenger inside,
certainly ought to be made decently and .in
order. Moreover, it was the first outing that
Mrs. Grafton had taken for eight years, and
the occasion was one that required proper
observance. To be told to " Chirk up, Maud,"
right in front of Banker Willowby's house,
was certainly irritating, and her excessive
THE PRACTICE 57
good-breeding showed in the forbearance with
which she received the admonition. Maud S.
made up in refinement and courtesy what
she lacked in speed, and she showed her deli-
cacy, even in her resentment, by the ladylike
way in which she flapped her ears forward,
in order that she might not hear the domestic
conversation that was going on in the carriage
behind her.
" I feel like a deserter from the regiment,"
sighed Mrs. Grafton. " I ought not to be going
away from home.,,
" Well, I 'm sorry to say it," responded the
doctor, "but you certainly ought to be getting
away from home just as fast as the train will
carry you, — and Maud S. will condescend to
take you to it I can't get you out of Auburn
too soon."
"It is wicked of me to leave the house and
the children."
"It would be wicked of me not to make
you leave the house and the children ! You
have had an undisturbed diet of house and
children four years too long. No wonder your
58 HOME FROM COLLEGE
heart rebels. A fine kind of doctor I am, not
to have detected this long ago ! If it had been
any patient but my wife, I should have been
quick to discover it But it's partly your
own fault, Elizabeth ; you had no business to
be so uncomplaining about yourself. Even
that excuse, though, does n't keep me from
realizing how brutally thoughtless I have
been."
The mother-mind went back to the forlorn
little group on the porch. " Poor children,"
she sighed ; " I don't know how they are going
to get along; if they only had some one to
rely upon for their three meals a day! But
Ellen is woefully inefficient, and she has to
be handled with sugar-tongs, besides. The
spring sewing isn't finished yet; the porch
ought to be screened; David — poor litde
pale face — ought to be sent away before his
hay fever begins; and the fruit-canning season
is just at hand."
" Oh, we }ll get along," assured the doctor,
in the old, illogical way that means nothing,
and yet is so comforting to a woman ; "Bar-
THE PRACTICE 59
bara 's young and strong, and full of energy.
She '11 put her hand to the helm, if need be."
" But this is her vacation, and I want her
to enjoy it She *s worked hard at her books
for four years. Besides, she is so full of her
writing now — "
Dr. Grafton laughed, — a merry, contagious
laugh, that rivaled his medical skill in winning
his patients. " I thought as much," he said.
" Getting admission to her room nowadays is
attended with all the formalities of the Masonic
ritual, and she goes about with ink on her
fingers and ink on her nose. I suppose she is
fired by the ambition of the Banbury Cross
lady in making 'music wherever she goes.'
Poor little Barbara ; she 's taking herself so
very seriously, these days ! She feels that she
must gush forth a stream of living water for
thirsty mankind, forgetting, dear litde lass,
that she is not a spring yet, but only a rain-
barrel. Four years of college have filled her,
but she does n't realize that now is the time
to keep all the bung-holes shut. I suppose we
must all pass through that think- we-are-artists
60 HOME FROM COLLEGE
disease, but Barbara seems to have an aggra-
vated case."
"She has been encouraged in it a good
deal."
" Yes, I know she has, — more 's the pity.
A prodigy now and then must be encouraging
to a college faculty, but it 's a bit hard on the
prodigy herself, and harder still on the prod-
igy's family. Intellectual lights ought to be
hidden under a ton, instead of a bushel, so it
would n't be so easy to dig them out I believe,
myself, that Barbara has a fine mind, and
unusual ability, but, dear heart, she's only a
child I She has to live before she can write."
"I haven't dared tell her that yet," said
her mother ; " I don't want even to seem to dis-
courage her. And you know how confident
Barbara is."
" I wish she were a bit less ^/^confident ;
she 's bound to be disappointed, and I 'm afraid
that she sets her hopes so high that the fall,
when it comes, will be a hard one. I wish, too,
that she was n't quite so serious about it all.
Her saving grace of humor seems to have
THE PRACTICE 61
utterly deserted her at this trying period of
her existence."
" That 's a way that humor sometimes has,"
said Mrs. Grafton. " The very jolliest, drollest
woman I ever knew confided to me once that
her sense of humor had entirely deserted her,
at one time. She had been out sailing with
the man who afterward became her husband,
and during the course of the evening he had
done a litde love-making. ' He called me
Sweetie/ she said to me. 'Think of it! Sweetie 1
Why, it's as bad as Pettie, or Lambie ! ' And
the worst of it was that it did n't even seem
funny to me until after I thought it over at
home. ' When love comes in the door, humor
flies out of the window/ she said ; and I sup-
pose it may be the same way with genius."
"If Barbara's genius was armed with a
broom instead of a pen, it would be better for
her," said her father. " And that is why I am
glad, for her sake as well as yours, that you are
going away. The girl isn't all dreamer; she
has a practical compartment in that brain of
hers, and your absence will give her a chance
62 HOME FROM COLLEGE
to open the doors and windows of it, and
sweep the cobwebs out. Oh, I 'm not worried
about Barbara^ — she '11 rise to "occasions
And we 7/ get along beautifully. If you 7/
only come back to us well and strong — "
Maud S. made an unnecessary clatter over
the macadam road, in order not to hear the
rest of the sentence. The anxious note in her
master's voice swallowed up the last trace of
her resentment.
In the meantime the little group on the
Grafton porch had turned back into the house.
Jack had taken his fishing-tackle, and gone
off down the dusty road without a word.
David, with a plaintive expression on his
thin little face, had turned to his beloved
"Greek Heroes" for comfort. The Kid's tears
had been dried by Barbara's handkerchief
and two raisin cookies, and he had gone to
the sand-pile to play. Gassy, alone, was un-
accounted for. She had slipped away from
the porch when her mother was assisted into
the carriage, and was not in sight when the
others turned back into the house.
THE PRACTICE 63
" Picking up, first," sighed Barbara, as she
came back into the big living-room, which
seemed unusually untidy and cheerless. "Then
the bed-making and the chamber-work, plan-
ning the meals, and ordering the supplies.
I think I shall write out all the menus for
Ellen, — that will be the easiest way." She
was putting the room in order, and her hands
flew with her thoughts. " I mean to do every-
thing systematically. I want to prove to
father that, college fits a girl for anything, —
even practical life, and if I keep the house in
order, discipline the children, and have some
excellent meals, I think he'll be convinced. It
will take some time to get things started, but
I believe that after I have them systematized,
they will go smoothly, and I shall have plenty
of time left for my writing. Mother always
spent so much time on the unnecessary litde
things; no wonder she went to pieces — poor
mother ! "
Something dimmed Barbara's tender eyes,
but she steadied her lips and went on with
her plans : —
64 HOME FROM COLLEGE
" One thing I intend to change, and that is
having dinner at noon. It 's horribly unhy-
gienic, and old-fashioned, too. I '11 speak to
Ellen about it."
She pulled open the door of the hall-closet
to find a dust-doth. A huddled pile of pink
gingham, with two long, black legs protrud-
ing, lay prone upon the floor. The head was
hidden.
Barbara put an arm about the place which
seemed to mark a waist in the gingham.
" What's the matter, dear?" she asked ten-
derly.
There was a long-drawn breath, and an
unmistakable snuffle. Then Gassy's voice
answered coldly, —
"NuthinV
" Well, don't lie in here in the dark. Come
out with me, litde sister."
Gassy came, slowly and reluctandy. She
rose from the floor, back foremost, keeping
her face assiduously turned away from her
sister.
" I don't like to see you cry — "
THE PRACTICE 65
" Was n't crying," stiffened Gassy, with a
sob.
"I mean I don't like to have you tucked
away in here, when I need you outside. I
want your help, litde girl."
"What for?" demanded Gassy, suspi-
ciously.
" Oh, just to have you about, to talk to,"
said Barbara. "Come on out with me, and
help me plan the lunch."
" Lunch? Are we goin' to have a picnic? "
asked Gassy, seating herself with her proud
litde face turned toward the window.
" No ; but we 're going to have dinner at
night while mother 's away. And Cecilia, how
would you like to turn vegetarian?"
"Just eat vegetables? "
"Yes ; it 's much more hygienic."
"No meat at all?"
" No ; we eat altogether too much flesh."
" It would be cheaper to board at a livery
stable," said Gassy.
" And healthier, too, I think. I 've gone
without meat voluntarily for three whole
66 HOME FROM COLLEGE
years, and I have been in perfect physical
condition. It 's a help mentally, too. And diet
is n't restricted if you substitute eggs and nuts
and fruit for meat"
Nuts and fruit sounded good to Gassy. "All
right," she said ; " I 'd like to try it. But we
can't do it yet awhile ; we 're working out a
bill at the butcher's. His wife broke her collar-
bone last year, and he 's paying the doctor's
bill in meat Besides, what will Ellen say?"
Barbara wondered, herself. But she was too
proud to admit her foreboding.
" Ellen draws her salary " (college setde-
ment lessons forbade her using the term
" wages ") " for following our wishes — "
" Then she does n't earn it," interrupted
Gassy.
" And I 'm sure she could find no objection
to any decision of ours as to the best kind
of food. Will you ask her to come here, Ce-
cilia, as soon as she gets her dishes washed ?
I '11 have the menu ready for her by that
time."
Miss Parloa's cook-book, which Barbara
THE PRACTICE 67
took down from the shelf to assist her in her
task, was not a vegetarian ; but memories of
her self-imposed college ideals still lingered.
By the time Ellen's lumbering step was heard
in the back hall the menu was ready, neatly
written upon the first page of a new little
blank-book.
" I wuz down in the cellar," stated Ellen,
" and I can't leave my work to come every
time I 'm wanted. Just holler the things down
to me. Me and your ma has an understand-
ing about that"
" If you come in here after the dish-wash-
ing every morning, Ellen, you won't have
to make an extra trip upstairs," said Bar-
bara, in the approved college-settlement tone.
"I have no desire to demand unnecessary
service from you. I shall always have the
menu for the day ready for you at this hour.
This is for to-day : while mother is gone we
shall have dinner at night, and luncheon at
noon."
Ellen's expression was not wholly encour-
aging, as she took the little book. It read: —
68 HOME FROM COLLEGE
Cantaloupes with ice.
Egjs in tomato cases. Rice patds.
Thin bread and butter.
Farmesian balls on lettuce, with French dressing.
Olives. Wafers.
Mint sherbet
Nuts.
"Canty loops! What's them?'' demanded
Ellen
"Qk mush^netans! Why didnt too say
so? MixsIhemIoos wWt be ripe fer a month.
What's that next thing?"
"That *s a new way erf serving eggsT said
&&ttaia;;*the recipe *s in the book* Itfsson-
ptev and wr prattr^
*Yo*a cant ssree ^oi that way hi this
towtfc** gTnjottbfed BfenL "-Tomatoes don't
w«fr&x cases*. — they come fit baskets*. Ami
a$ ltasg: as there s a cfirft fix tfce fcotase where
I*1* woufciog^. I won't afiv«r set a toniafe>bas^
feet oik tttetafctei Wftat'sriicepayt^!:^
CAVIYLOOI'V WHAT> THEM?
THE PRACTICE 69
"The recipes are all in the book: I've
marked the pages," said Barbara, with dig-
nity. "Of course, Ellen, if cantaloupes are
not in the market, we'll have to substitute
something else. Or perhaps we could get
along without that course."
"We might have the ice, without the
melons," suggested Gassy.
Barbara glanced up suspiciously, but the
sharp litde face was innocent
" That is all, then, Ellen. The recipes are
given in full, and you will have no trouble
in following them. I have ordered all the ne-
cessary materials. The rice and the cheese
will be here in half an hour. Miss Cecilia
will show you where the mint-bed is in the
garden."
Ellen's large freckled face took on an ex-
pression of astonishment " Who will ? " she
asked.
" Miss Cecilia," responded Barbara.
Ellen's eyes followed Barbara's glance.
"Oh, Gassy/" she said. "Didn't know who
you meant, before. Say, Barbara Grafton, I
70 HOME FROM COLLEGE
can't never get up a meal like this, with no
meat, and on ironing-day, too. Your ma
never has sherbet but Sundays, and then Jack
turns the crank fer me. And nuts I Nuts won't
be ripe till October."
" The nuts are already ordered," said Bar-
bara, turning away. " That will do, Ellen. I 'm
going upstairs now to do the chamber-work,
and after that I shall go to my writing. I
don't want to be disturbed. If any one comes
to see me, say that I 'm not at home."
" I '11 holler if I want you," said Ellen, grimly.
" No, don't do that, because it breaks into
what I am doing. I shall be downstairs again
before luncheon-time, and you can tell me
then anything you need. Cecilia, I trust you
to see that I am not disturbed for two hours.
Don't call me before twelve o'clock, no matter
what happens."
It was long past noon when the last sheet
of " The Spirit of the Eternal Ego " slipped
from Barbara's hand, and the pen was
dropped. She glanced up at the litde clock
near the vine- wreathed window. " Ten min-
THE PRACTICE 71
utes of one I " she exclaimed ; " I must have
missed the din — luncheon bell. "But my
essay is done — hurray 1 "
She hurried down the stairs. The living-
room was empty and the porch deserted. The
dining-room table had not been set In the
kitchen the sink was piled high with dirty
dishes, dish-towels hung over every chair,
and a trail of grease-spots ran from pantry to
back door. The kitchen table was pulled up
before a window, and about it were seated
David, with some canned peaches, Gassy, with
a saucer full of ground cinnamon and sugar,
and Jack, with a massive sandwich of cold
beefsteak and thick bread. On the table were
a bowl of cold baked beans, a saucer of rad-
ishes, a dish of pickles, and a botde of pink
POP-
Barbara shuddered. " Where 's Ellen ? " she
asked.
Jack looked up. " Ah, the authoress ! " he
exclaimed. " I judge from your appearance
upon the scene of action that the fire of genius
has ceased to rage in unabated fury."
72 HOME FROM COLLEGE
"Why are you eating in here? Where's
Ellen ? " Barbara repeated.
" In reply to your first question, to save
carrying ; in reply to your second, I canna say.
I know not where she went; I only know
where she deserves to go."
" Has she gone away to stay?"
"In the language of the housewife, she
has ' left/ " said Jack. " I hurried home from
the river, bringing two thirty-pound trout to
grace the festal board, an hour ago. I found
that if there was to be any festal board, I
must supply both the festives and the board-
ing. The gas-stove had ceased to burn ; the
kitchen was still. Ellen had flown the coop. I
was for calling you, but Gassy, here, was ob-
durate. She said that you had left orders with
your private secretary that, come what might,
you were not to be disturbed. Luckily, father
telegraphed that he was not coming home
until to-morrow. So, with the aid of my little
family circle, I prepared the repast which you
see before you. It was dead easy : each one
took out of the ice-box his favorite article of
w
w
8
(-t
w
o
w
PS
THE PRACTICE 73
food, and for a wonder, no two happened to
want the same article. Fall to, yourself, fair
lady ; there is still some cold boiled cabbage
in the refrigerator, and you have earned it
after your valiant fight as bread-winner for
the family this morning I"
" Stop your nonsense, Jack. Did n't Ellen
make any explanation of her going ? "
"Like the girl in the ballad, 'She left a
note behind.' It was written on the other side
of a wonderful menu, which probably was the
cause of her leaving. I don't wonder it scared
her off. The note lies there on the table."
Barbara picked it up. The page had been
torn from the blank-book, and on it was
scrawled : —
"i am leving youse. my folks have been
at me to come home, and i have desided not
to stay where i cant holler, also i cant get no
dinner like this, youse can pay my wages to
the boy that comes for my close."
Barbara sank hopelessly into a chair. There
seemed nothing further to be said upon the
subject of Ellen.
74 HOME FROM COLLEGE
" Where 's Charles ? " she inquired.
44 Don't you know ? " said Jack. " I have n't
seen him since I came home. We thought
you must have sent him on an errand, when
he didn't appear at noon. The Kid always
turns up regularly at meal-time."
"I haven't seen him since mother left,"
replied Barbara. "Then I sent him to the
sand-pile. I have n't an idea where he is."
" You told him he could n't go to a picnic,"
said David, dreamily.
"Why, no, I didn't"
"But you did, Barbara. He came and
knocked on your door while you were writing,
and told you he wanted to go. And you said
no. Then he hollered that he thought you
were " — David hesitated delicately over the
epithet — "a mean old thing; that he hadn't
asked you to let him have a picnic before
since mother had left And you told him to
run away, — that you were busy."
" Did I ? " asked Barbara, trying to remem-
ber. She had a faint recollection of such an
interruption, but she was never sure of what
THE PRACTICE 75
happened during the hours which she spent
in the throes of authorship. " How long ago
was it?"
" 'Bout eleven o'clock."
Barbara looked worried. "I can't think
where he could have gone," she said. " Have
you looked everywhere in the house ? "
" Everywhere we could think of," responded
Jack. " Don't worry, Barb ; he '11 show up as
soon as he gets hungry. Disappearance is his
long suit."
" Does he often run away like this ? "
" Every time the spirit moves him. Not
even a letter-press could keep him down when
the wanderlust seizes him. Sometimes he is
gone for hours. Punishment does n't seem to
do him much good, either, though I must say
he never gets enough of it to make any im-
pression. If he were mine, I should test the
magic power of a willow switch."
" How do you find him ?"
" Oh, he comes wandering in, like the prod-
igal son, after he has fed upon husks for a
while. Maybe he has been unable to face the
76 HOME FROM COLLEGE
ordeal of a separation from Ellen, and has
gone with her."
" I wish he had n't gone while father and
mother are away. I feel, somehow, as though
it were my fault"
"Now stop worrying, Barbara; he'll turn
up. My only fear is that you '11 receive him
with open arms when he arrives. Just you
plan to be a little severe on him, and we '11
cure him of his habit before mother gets
home."
But in spite of Jack's reassurance, Barbara
was troubled, and as she cleared away the
remains of the children's feast, she caught
herself looking out of the window, and listen-
ing for the click of the gate. At two o'clock,
when the last dish was put away, the Kid had
not returned ; at three he was not in sight ;
at four none of the neighbors had seen him ;
at five she left the anxious seat at the front
window for the kitchen, with reluctance ; and
at six it was a worried-looking Barbara who
greeted Jack's return from baseball practice.
" Has n't the little rascal turned up yet ? "
THE PRACTICE 77
asked the boy. " I think I '11 go out and take
a look at some of his favorite haunts. Now,
Barbara, if he comes while I 'm away, don't
you play prodigal with him ! "
The dinner was eaten, and cleared away. At
seven there was no Kid. At eight the other
children went to bed without him. At nine
o'clock Jack returned with no news. Even he
showed anxiety as Barbara met him at the
door with expectant face.
" Nobody has seen a glimpse of him," he
reported. " I 've been the round of his inti-
mates, and to all of his pet resorts, and I 've
scoured the town. I don't know what else
to do."
There was a noise on the front porch. A
slow, halting step came up the stairs. Bar-
bara rushed toward the door.
" Careful, now," cautioned Jack. " That 's
the Kid, all right. Don't you greet him with
outstretched arms."
But the caution was not necessary. All of
the pent-up anxiety turned into wrath as Bar-
bara became sure of the step. Her heart hard-
78 HOME FROM COLLEGE
ened toward the small offender as she hastily
made her plans for his reception. In response
to the second knock at the door, she answered
the summons.
"Who's there?" she asked, without open-
ing the screen.
" It 's me," said a still, small voice.
44 What do you want?"
44 Want to come in."
" Well, you can't come in. I don't let
strange men into my house at this time of
night"
There was a pause on the front step as the
little lad wearily shifted his weight from one
foot to the other. Thai he knocked again.
"Want to get in."
Jack looked at Barbara, warningly. " I can't
let you in," she said;44 I'm alone in the house;
my father and mother are away from home,
and I never let strangers in when I 'm alone."
44 1 'm not strangers ; I 'm Charles."
44 Charles would n't be out at this time of
night," remarked Barbara, impersonally.
x " I'm hungry," said the Kid
THE PRACTICE 79
There was a wistfulness in the voice that
touched all the mother in the girl. "Well,
I never turn any tramp away hungry," she
said; "I'll give you some bread and milk,
but then you '11 have to go."
She unlocked the door, and surveyed her
small brother chillingly. The Kid had evi-
dently made a day of it His cap was gone,
his shoestrings were untied, his face and hands
were streaked with dirt, and one shirt-waist
sleeve was torn away.
" Goodness, how dirty ! " she said. " There
is a place set at the table for our own little
boy, but he 's a clean child, and I can't let you
have it as you are now. You '11 have to wash,
first. Go up those stairs, and you '11 find a
bathroom, the first room to the left Wash
your hands and face, and then come down.
I '11 give you something to eat before you
go."
The Kid looked at Barbara steadily. Won-
derment, doubt, and understanding were ex-
pressed in turn on his round face. He turned
without a word, his small fat legs climbed
80 HOME FROM COLLEGE
the stairway, and his dirty little figure disap-
peared inside the bathroom door.
His sister for the first time ventured a look/
at Jack.
" Bravo, Bernhardt ! " he said.
" 1 hated to do it," said Barbara. " But I
know that he deserved it, and I feel sure that
it was the right thing. A psychological pun-
ishment is so much better than a scolding or
a whipping. And Charles realized what it
meant ; did you see his dear puzzled little face
take on contrition as he began to understand
my meaning? Mother says that he is a hard
child to manage, but I don't see why. He re-
sponds so readily to an appeal to his reason."
There was a sound in the upper hall. From
the bathroom door floated down the voice
of the Kid: —
" Missus," he called ; " hey, Missus 1 There
ain't no soap in here."
CHAPTER V
THE "IDGIT"
THERE were two newspapers in Au-
burn. The "Transcript" was one
of the oldest newspapers in the
middle West, and it well upheld the dignity
of its years. It was Republican as to politics,
conservative as to opinion, and inclined to
Methodism as to religion. It prided itself upon
the fact that in the fifty years of its existence
it had never changed its politics or its make-
up, and had never advanced its subscription
price or a new theory. It represented Auburn
in being slow, substantial, and self-satisfied.
The "Ledger" was a new arrival in Au-
burn, and had not yet proved its right to live.
It had a flippant tone that barred its entrance
to the best families, and Auburn had never
given it the official sanction that would insure
its permanent success. The difference in the
spirit of the two papers might be seen by a
glance down the personal columns of each.
82 HOME FROM COLLEGE
The " Transcript " was wont to state in digni-
fied terms that "Joseph Slater departed yes-
terday for Jamestown," The " Ledger" would
announce flippantly, "Joe Slater went to Jim-
town yesterday. What 's up, Joe ? " This was
spicy, all Auburn agreed, but it savored of
vulgarity, and the old residents clung to their
old paper, in spite of the fact that the new
sheet was enterprising, clean, and up-to-date.
The " Ledger" catered to advertisements ; the
"Transcript" paid special attention to the
obituary column. And the citizens of Auburn
subscribed to the "Transcript," and borrowed
the "Ledger."
On the morning of the sixteenth of July the
" Transcript " contained two items more than
the "Ledger." The first of these was headed:
AUBURN AUTHORESS!
Miss Btadfae Hues of thk city coatribotes some foes
«fto& &eck*& d littk M*rih* Johnson
Dwest parents, from ib* Hwrens
Corks tki$Tft*jss^t»totb*6, —
r>o not w*ep ivt Ettfe Mattfcs
Thou Art not so gt*d 4s *W
THE "IDGIT" 83
There were six Johnson children
Living on the fruits of heaven.
But the winged angels asked for
Still another, which made seven, —
And they held out beckoning fingers,
Saying, " Little Mattie, come ! "
In a dainty old-rose casket
Little Mattie was took home.
There is no hearth, however tended,
But one dead lamb is there ;
And Martha will be greatly missed
For one who was so small and spare.
But in the crystal, opal heavens,
Clustering near the golden gate,
Her and all the other Johnsons
For her family sit and wait.
Cheer up, mother, sister, brothers,
And the pastor of her church,
For though Martha 's joined the angels,
She leaves none in the lurch.
The other item was not poetic. It was in
the advertisement column, and read : —
Wanted : immediately. A good cook. Must be neat,
willing, honest, and experienced. No laundry work. Re-
ferences required. Only competent workers need apply.
Address X. Y. Z., this office.
84 HOME FROM COLLEGE
11 1 saw your advertisement in the paper
this morning," said Miss Bates, stopping at
the doctor's gate in the early evening.
Barbara sat on the porch step, her bright
head drooped upon the vine-covered railing.
It had been sweeping-day, and the unused
muscles of her back were protesting against
their unaccustomed exercise. Perhaps it was
weariness that sent the querulous note into her
voice.
" How did you know it was mine?"
M Why, I happened to meet David on the
way to the • Transcript ' office this morning.
1 knew that Ellen left you several days ago,
no I put two and two together. Besides, my
dear, I would have known for other reasons.
The advertisement showed that it was written
by an Inexperienced housekeeper."
11 How?" asked Barbara.
11 Nobody ever advertises for help in Au-
burn* Newsjmpers aren't much good for
tlwt. U you want a girl, all you have to do
U to spread the news among your acquaint-
MIC**,"
THE "IDGIT" 85
" That is n't hard, with you to help," mut-
tered Gassy, from the step above.
"What's that, Cecilia? Oh, I thought you
spoke to me. — And they will be on the out-
look for you. It is much cheaper than adver-
tising. How are you getting along without
Ellen?"
Barbara thought of the half-done potatoes,
the broken water-pitcher, and the soda-less
biscuits that had been incidents of the day.
But she was in no humor for a confession to
Miss Bates.
" Pretty well," she said.
"That's good. You know so litde about
housework, Barbara, that I would n't have
been surprised if you were missing her. Not
that you 're to blame for that Lots of people
set a college education above home training,
nowadays. Just about noon to-day I smelled
something burning, and I said to myself,
* There goes Barbara Grafton's dinner.' But
of course it might have come from some other
kitchen. The wind came straight this way,
though."
86 HOME FROM COLLEGE
" Yes ? " said Barbara, wearily.
" Is it true that you 've turned vegetarian ?
I was at the butcher's this morning, and Jack
came in and got a steak. I knew that your
pa is away, but I thought that one steak
would n't do for your family. I happened to
mention it to the butcher, and he said that
your meat orders were falling off lately. So
I just wondered if you had given up eating
meat."
A long, thin arm, extended from the step
above, thrust Barbara vigorously in the side.
In the dusk the action was hidden from the
visitor, but Barbara knew well its purport
She was being enjoined to tell nothing to
Miss Bates.
" Our appetites for meat seem to be falling
off this hot weather," she returned guard-
edly.
" Of course it *s a lot cheaper to live that
way," said the visitor. " Saves cooking, too.
And you won't have time to do much cook-
ing if all these reports I hear of your starting
a benevolent society are true."
THE "IDGIT" 87
There was no response from Barbara.
"If you're thinking of going into club-
work, you 'd better join our lodge, — the An-
cient Neighbors. Maybe you 'd be elected to
office. Mrs. Beebe, the old Royal Ranger,
resigned three months ago, and Miss Homer,
the new one, ain't giving satisfaction. She
don't seem to be capable of learning the rit-
ual. She got the meeting open last night, and
forgot what came next, and had to send for
Mrs. Beebe to get it shut If you have any
memory for rituals, Barbara, maybe I could
get you in for office."
Barbara murmured her thanks. " I have n't
much time for club-work, though, now," she
said.
" I have," said a small voice. Gass/s fist,
inclosing an imaginary missile, shook in the
direction of the unconscious visitor.
" I expect that your literary work takes up
most of your time."
Barbara caught her breath sharply. How
much had that dreadful woman heard ?
" Of course you may not be writing, but
88 HOME FROM COLLEGE
I have had my suspicions about it, since I
met you with that fat envelope with the Cen-
tury Company's stamp, a week ago. I knew
that you had done a bit of writing at school,
and I put two and two together, and said to
myself, ' Barbara Grafton 's gone to writing.'
I could n't help wondering if the ' Century '
had taken it, or sent it back. Of course, being
an author myself, I 'm always interested in
budding genius. What is it, Barbara, poetry
or fiction ? "
Out of the shadow of the porch vines came
Gassy's sharp litde voice. "Jack cut your
poetry out of the paper this morning, Miss
Bates," she said.
"Did he?" said Miss Bates, delightedly.
" I did n't know Jack was so appreciative as
that I 'm afraid the poetry was n't as good
as some I have written. But I felt it — every
word of it — when I wrote it. And I suppose
Jack liked its tone of sincerity. That is my
highest ambition : not to win fame or money,
but to be cut out and carried in the vest-
pocket."
THE "IDGIT" 89
" He said," giggled Gassy, from behind the
vines, " that he could n't have the sanctity of
the home invadedf,, — the imitation of Jack's
inflection was perfect, — "an' that he would n't
suffer our minds, — David's and mine, he
meant, — to be c'rrupted, so he cut it out;
but I think he sent it to mother. We al-
ways save all the funny things for her, to
cheer her up, now she 's sick."
The darkness hid the terrible expression
upon Miss Bates's face, but it did not conceal
the frigidity of her tones as she took her
elbows from the doctor's gate. " Your sister 's
got a job in giving you some of her college
culture, Gassy Grafton," she said to the small
fold of light gingham which showed along-
side the vine-clad porch post She looked back
over her shoulder to fire her last volley of
ammunition.
" I hope it will amuse your mother," she
said. " If you 'd all been a litde less selfish
about using her like a hack-horse when she
was at home, you would n't have to be send-
ing jokes to her at a sanitarium, now."
90 HOME FROM COLLEGE
" What on earth did you tell her that for ? "
asked Barbara, as Miss Bates swept around
the corner.
" She deserved it. She need n't pick on
you ! "
" But you can't give people all they deserve,
in this world, litde sister."
" No, not always," said Gassy. " But I
always do when I can."
Miss Bates's opinion about the value of
newspaper advertising seemed to be well
. founded. A week passed without an appli-
cant for the vacant position in the Grafton
kitchen. Barbara grew tired and cross and
discouraged. The weather turned hot, and
the sunny kitchen on the east side of the
house seemed to harbor all the humidity of
the day. The nurse at the sanitarium wrote
that Mrs. Grafton was not improving as
rapidly as she could wish. David's hay fever
began, and he went wheezing around the
house in a state of discomfort that wrung
Barbara's sympathetic heart. The writing and
I
THE "IDGIT" 91
the precious study-hour had to be abandoned.
So it was with a feeling of relief that the over-
worked girl saw a strange woman come
through the office gate one morning. The
newcomer was not at all prepossessing. Hair,
eyes, and skin were of the uncertain whity-
yellow of a peeled banana. Her shirt-waist
bloused in the back as well as the front, and
she had yet to learn the aesthetic value of
sufficient petticoats. She stared . uncertainly
at Barbara as the latter opened the side door.
"Did you wish to see any one?" asked
Barbara, after a painful silence. -
" Yes, mam," said the girl.
" Whom do you want?"
There was another long pause, during which
the girl shifted her weight from one foot to
the other. Then she said, " The lady, mam."
41 Did you come to inquire about a posi-
tion?"
The young woman evidently concentrated
her energy upon the question. Her mind
moved so slowly and jerkily that Barbara,
watching the process, was reminded of the
92 HOME FROM COLLEGE
working of an ouija board. She would not
have been surprised to hear the girl squeak.
Bat the query was beyond the newcomer. It
was plain that vernacular must be tried.
44 Do you want a place ? "
The girl brightened a shade. 44 Yes, mam."
44 Can you cook ? "
44 No, mam."
44 Wait upon the table ? "
44 No, mam."
44 Sweep and dust? "
44 No, mam."
44 Can't you bake at all ? "
44 No, mam."
44 Have you never cooked ? "
44 No, mam."
44 Well, what can you do? "
The whity-yellow girl brightened again.
It was evident that this time she was to vary
her reply.
44 1 kin milk, mam."
Two hours later, Jack surveyed the new ac-
quisition through the porch window. '4 1 see
THE "IDGIT" 93
we have an Angel of the House," he said to
Barbara, who had stretched her weary length
in the hammock. " How came she here ? "
" She just blew in."
" In answer to your advertisement ? "
" No, she had never seen it"
Jack took another critical look through the
window. "She doesn't give the impression
of being overweighted with intelligence. And
she 's certainly not beautiful. Has her color
run in the wash, or was she always of that
gende hue ? But appearances must be deceit-
ful ; she 's a paragon of cleverness, if she fills
the bill for you. I suppose she is a wonderful
cook?"
Barbara shook her head.
"Neat?"
"She doesn't look so."
"Well, willing?"
" I have n't discovered yet"
" Honest, anyway? "
" I don't know anything about her morals."
Jack assumed a momentary air of distress.
Then he drew a long sigh of relief as he re-
94 HOME FROM COLLEGE
marked, "Well, I know she's experienced
You said no others need apply ! "
The hammock's motion stopped, and Bar-
bara lay ominously silent for a minute. Then
the pent-up feeling of the past week burst
forth in her reply : —
" John Grafton, I don't know one earthly
thing about that girl ! She 's done farm-work
all her life. She does n't know how to cook.
She never heard of rice or celery. She never
has seen a refrigerator ! She 's afraid of the gas-
stove. She would n't know what I meant if
I asked her about references. She can't do
anything but milk. She is n't one single thing
that I advertised for, or hoped for, or wanted I
But maybe she can learn. And I 'm so tired,
and hot, and discouraged, and I 've spoiled so
many things ! "
And for once in his life Jack understood,
and forbore.
" I ' ve seen a good many kinds of imbecil-
ity in my life," said Jack, a week later. "But
never one to equal hers.
THE "IDGIT" 95
She is willing, she is active,
She is sober, she is kind,
But she never looks attractive,
And she hasn't any mind.
She was born stupid, achieved stupidness,
and had stupidity thrust upon her, — all three.
I found her pouring water on the gas-stove
to put out the burner, the other day. She '11
have us all gas-fixiated, if we don't watch
out."
"That was several days ago," laughed
Barbara. " She 's developed a stage beyond
that, now. In fact, she 's devoted to the gas-
stove. I can hardly prevail upon her to turn
it off at all. She announced to me yesterday
that it was the handiest thing she ever saw, —
that you 'only had to light it once a day, and
fire all the time.' Think what our gas-bill is
likely to be under her tender ministrations ! "
"Her awe of it is evidently great," said
Jack. " She asked Gassy this morning if she
was named after the stove. ' I don't wonder
they named you that/ she said; 'I ain't
never seen nothing like it W'y, if I wuz to
96 HOME FROM COLLEGE
go home and tell 'em I turned on a spit,
and there wuz the fire, they 'd say I wuz a
liar!'"
"She's an idgit!" ejaculated Gassy; "a
born idgit ! "
Gassy' s epithet clung. It was used by the
family with bated breath and apprehensive
glance, but still it was used. No other tide
seemed appropriate after that was once
heard, and her Christian name sank into obliv-
ion from disuse. It was never employed ex-
cept in her presence. And the Idgit certainly
earned her title. She put onions in the rice-
pudding; she melted the base off of the silver
teapot by setting it on the stove ; she cut up
potatoes peeling and all, for creamed pota-
toes, explaining that " some liked 'em skinned,
an' some did n't" ; she left the receiver of the
telephone hanging by its cord for hours, until
the doctor's patients were desperate, and so
many complaints poured in at the central
office that a man was sent to repair damages ;
she turned the hose on the walls and floor of
the kitchen to facilitate scrubbing, until the
THE "IDGIT" 97
whole room was deluged, and overflowed like
the Johnstown flood ; she answered the door-
bell by calling through the dining-room and
the front hall that "no one's to home" ; she
put the bread sponge in the oven of the range,
and then built a fire above it to "raise it
quick" (the oven was full of burned paste
before Barbara discovered the time-saving
device); she ladled the gold-fish out of the
aquarium to feed them, and left the four red,
dead litde corpses on the library mantel.
"They're too pretty to sling out," she said.
Barbara wavered between exasperation and
amusement during the twenty-four hours of
the day. " I don't know what I 'm going to do
with her," she confided to her father one even-
ing. " I thought that intelligence was a part
of the make-up of every human being ; but
Addie either has no place for it in her iden-
tity, or else the place that is there is empty. I
gave her a recipe yesterday, — how she ever
learned to read is beyond my comprehension,
— that called for ' six eggs beaten separately/
Addie emptied one from its shell, beat it,
98 HOME FROM COLLEGE
emptied another, beat that, and followed the
same proceeding with the whole six."
"I can tell something funnier than that,"
said Dr. Grafton. "I telephoned over here
from the livery stable this afternoon, and
asked Addie to 'hold the phone' until I
could read a message to her. Central rang
off before I could read it, and then I could n't
get connections again. So I came over home
to give it to her, twenty minutes later, and
found her obediently still holding the re-
ceiver."
"The last teller of tales has the best chance,"
chuckled Jack. " What message did you give
the Idgit to give Miss Bates when she called
here yesterday ? "
Barbara considered. "That I was in, but
that I was engaged, I think," she said finally.
"She gave it, all right I She told Miss
Bates that you were at home, but that you
were going to be married. Thanks to Miss
Bates's activity and interest, the report is
widely circulated throughout Auburn."
Barbara groaned.
THE "IDGIT" 99
"Don't worry over it," said her father.
" The fact that Miss Bates is standing sponsor
for the story will destroy its danger."
"Oh, I'm not worrying about that," re-
sponded Barbara. " What is the report of my
betrothal to an unknown, and therefore harm-
less, man, as compared with the problem of
the Idgit? I don't want her, I can't keep her,
and yet how am I to got rid of her? "
" Maybe she '11 leave ; she told me her family
wanted her back," said Gassy, hopefully.
"I can't see what for," said Barbara, "un-
less it is to kill chickens. That is the one thing
she has done without blunder or assistance,
since she stepped over our threshold. And
unless Addie's family are given over wholly
to a diet of fowl, I fail to see how she could
be of any use to them."
But relief from the Idgit came sooner than
was expected. In the middle of an afternoon
of canning raspberries, Mrs. Willowby came
to inquire about Mrs. Grafton's health. Bar-
bara slipped off her berry-stained apron,
sighed over the fruit-stained nails that no
103944K
ioo HOME FROM COLLEGE
amount of manicuring would whiten, and
dabbed some powder on her shiny face.
Then she went into the living-room to greet
her guest.
Mrs. Willowby was one of the few residents
who reconciled Barbara to Auburn. Refine-
ment was her birthright, and in her gentle
voice, simple manner, and fine breeding were
combined all the aristocracy of old Auburn,
and none of its pettiness ; all the progress of
new Auburn, and none of its crudeness. The
miseries of kitchen-work were forgotten, as
the two dropped into the dear familiar talk of
the college world, that partook of neither ser-
vants nor weather, recipes nor house-cleaning.
" It *s a hundred years since I have talked
Matthew Arnold with any one," sighed Bar-
bara. " No, perhaps two months would be
nearer the truth. But it seems like a hundred
years."
"Why dotit you?" asked Mrs. Willowby.
" Just now, I haven't time," said Barbara ;
" but if I had all the time in the world, there
would n't be any one to talk to."
THE "IDGIT" 101
" Why not your father and mother ?"
" Father and mother! Why, father does n't
know poetry, — except Riley and Bret Harte ;
and mother does n't care for it."
Mrs. Willowby's sweet brown eyes twin-
kled. " You 're joking with me, Barbara."
" No, I 'm in earnest."
"You dear little girl! Are you such a
stranger to your own home people ? I don't be-
lieve that Matthew Arnold ever wrote anything
that your mother does n't know. Where she
gets time, with all her multitudinous duties, to
love Shelley, and live Browning, and keep
abreast of Stephen Phillips and Yeats, I don't
see ; but she does it, somehow. She is one of
the few true poetry-lovers I know. As for your
father, I have heard him quote Riley and
Harte to you children, because, I always sup-
posed, he thought you could understand
them. But he himself does n't stop there. He
is n't so widely read as your mother, but the
old poets he has made his own. He knows his
yellow Shakespeare from cover to cover. How
have you ever lived in the same house with
102 HOME FROM COLLEGE
them and yet been such a stranger? Your
father and mother, dear, are the cultivated
people of Auburn."
Surprise was written strongly on every fea-
ture of Barbara's face,
" That 's the trouble with college life. You
young people never get the opportunity to
know your own families, nowadays. At the
time when you are just beginning to be old
enough to appreciate your parents, you are
sent away. Then you go to work, or marry,
and leave home without knowing the real
wealth that often lies at your own doors. Did
you ever read Emerson's ' Days 9 ? "
Barbara shook her head. Mrs. Willowby
turned to the open book-shelves, and took
down a shabby green volume. " It has your
mother's own marks," she said, as she turned
to the page, where a lead pencil had traced a
delicate line about the words, —
" Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,
Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,
And marching single in an endless file,
Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.
THE "IDGIT" 103
To each they offer gifts after his will,
Bread, kingdom, stars, and sky that holds them all
I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp,
Forgot my morning wishes, hastily
Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day
Turned and departed silent I, too late,
Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn."
There was a moment's pause after the
stately lines were finished.
"I understand," said Barbara, finding her
voice. "But I never knew, — before. It is
true, Mrs. Willowby, about losing some things
by college life. I 'm beginning to think that
there are lots of things to be learned at home."
The gende brown eyes smiled at the new
tone of humility. " My dear litde girl," began
Mrs. Willowby, " if you have discovered that,
you have learned the very thing for which
you were sent to college. The most important
lessons in the word are not learned from text-
books, and all — Goodness, Barbara, what
on earth was that ? "
Somewhere from the back regions of the
house had come the sound of a mighty explo-
104 HOME FROM COLLEGE
sion. It was followed by the sound of break-
ing glass, and a shrill shriek.
"The Idgit!" breathed Barbara. The Em-
erson slid to the floor, and the hostess and
guest rushed to the kitchen.
In the middle of the floor sat the Idgit, a
whity-yellow island in a sea of raspberry
juice and broken glass. From the oven of
the gas-stove came a volume of flame and
smoke. The stove-lids lay on the floor, and the
kitchen was full of flying flecks of soot Bar-
bara rushed to the stove, and turned off the
burners, one by one. Then she lifted the hud-
dled heap from the floor.
"What is the matter, Addie?" she asked.
The ouija board in the Idgit's brain was
unusually stubborn and unmanageable. It
was fully three minutes before anything in-
telligible came from her lips. Then the inar-
ticulate sounds resolved themselves into the
words, "Oh, gol, mam ! "
"What happened?"
" I dunno, mam."
"What did you do to the stove ? "
IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FLOOR SAT THE IDGIT
THE "IDGIT" 105
" I dunno, mam."
" Did you light it ? How did the burners
come to be turned on? "
" I was cleaning the stove, mam. I must 'a'
turned 'em on when I washed the knobs."
"Then did you light it?"
" No, mam. I left it to cany the fruit down
cellar ; an' I lit a match to see by."
"Oh!" said Barbara.
For the first and last time in her career the
Idgit uttered a voluntary sentence. " I 'm
going to quit to-night Gol I that gas-stove I "
CHAPTER VI
THE DUCHESS
IT was eleven o'clock in the morning, and
Barbara threw herself into the hammock
on the porch, every nerve in her body
tingling with fatigue. In a chair near by sat
the Kid, driving imaginary horses along Main
Street, and politely removing his hat to every
one he met on the way. He inquired whether
Barbara desired to ride on the front seat with
him, but she was so tired that she scarcely
answered the little boy, and wearily closed
her eyes to avoid seeing David's book and
Jack's racket lying on the piazza floor. She
felt that to rise from the hammock and pick
up that racket was a task requiring the
strength and energy of a Titan.
She was gradually succumbing to the influ-
ence of the swaying hammock, and the tension
of her nerves was relaxing, so that the sudden
stampede of the horses on the porch was
THE DUCHESS 107
dimly associated in her mind with thunder,
when she felt a sudden touch on her shoulder,
and opened her eyes to see the Kid standing
near.
"There's a lady at the gate, Barb'ra," he
said.
Barbara peered over the edge of the ham-
mock. Coming up the path, with a stately
stride and a majestic swing that allowed her
skirts to sweep first one edge of the path and
then the other, advanced a Being whose pre-
sence immediately inspired Barbara with a
sense of approaching royalty. It was not that
the visitor was fashionably attired, for her
faded black garments and dejected-looking
bonnet, even in their palmiest days, could not
have been called stylish. Yet, resting in seren-
ity upon the thin, tall form of their wearer,
they seemed calmly self-satisfied and distin-
guished. As the visitor approached, she shed
kindly critical and affable glances about her,
and rewarded Barbara's inquiring gaze with
a cheerful smile.
"You're Barbara Grafton, I s'pose," she
108 HOME FROM COLLEGE
said in a brisk voice. "I'm Mrs. 'Arris, an1
I 've come to 'elp you hout."
Barbara sat up quickly. " Oh ! " she said.
"Do you wish a position as cook here ?"
Mrs. Harris's eyes rested upon her with
amiable condescension. " I come to 'elp you
hout," she repeated. " I 'm Mrs. Brown's wid-
der sister, and when she told me as 'ow you
was left alone and the 'ouse agoin' to rack
and ruin — "
Barbara suddenly stiffened in the hammock.
"Why, she says to me, she says, ' 'Ilda, I'm
awful fond of Dr. Grafton, an' I can't let 'im
starve without proper care while 'is wife's gone.
Now you jest put on your things an' go up
there an' 'elp hout.' So I come," concluded
Mrs. Harris, composedly ; and she sat down.
The Kid drew nearer, and stared at her
from under his mass of tawny hair. "You
goin' to stay here ? " he inquired.
"Yes, of course," answered Mrs. Harris,
with a sweeping glance at the little fellow,
that took in the holes in the knees of his stock-
ings.
H
O
X
O
W
o
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O
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*
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THE DUCHESS 109
"Then please get out o' that chair/9 said
the Kid, prompdy. " It 's my black Arabian
horse."
" Charles ! " cried Barbara.
"You take another chair, or play some-
wheres else,,, said Mrs. Harris, calmly. " Run-
nin' wild sence 'is mother left, I s'pose," she
remarked, turning to Barbara.
Barbara choked back her astonished resent-
ment at this speech, and returned to the sub-
ject at hand.
" It may be that you will not suit," she said
coldly, rising. " Can you cook well, and do
you understand gas-ranges ? "
Mrs. Harris laughed complacendy, eyeing
the slender girl before her with amused con-
descension. "I 'ave cooked for the finest
families o' Hengland," she announced. " I '11
setde with your father about wages. Now you
jest show me the kitchen, an' then I '11 let you
go, as I see this porch ain't tidy, an' that
there child needs to be attended to, an' prob-
ably the rest o' the 'ouse wants cleanin'."
The Kid slunk off the porch as the words
no HOME FROM COLLEGE
" needs to be attended to " pierced his small
cranium. He thought it meant chastisement
for his last speech, poor child, and saw, with
joy, Barbara following this new and surprising
person into the house. In Barbara's mind a
sense of resentment and defeat was conflicting
with a feeling of relief at the prospect of help.
She rejoiced to herself as they passed through
the hall, for she had just swept it with her
own hands.
"Dreadful dusty mopboards," said Mrs,
Harris, nonchalantly. Barbara's spirits sank.
As they entered the kitchen, she suddenly
remembered that she had left some dishes
piled in the sink, to be washed with the
dinner things. In her absence, moreover,
some hungry boy had been rummaging in
the cake-box, and had left crumbs and morsels
of food scattered over the table. Mrs. Harris
paused on the threshold, and untied her bon-
net, while her roving black eyes quickly took
in the scene before her. Clean enough it had
seemed to Barbara an hour before, but now
many things, hitherto unnoticed, suddenly
THE DUCHESS in
sprang into prominence. She saw that the
white sash-curtain at the window was disrep-
utably dirty ; that the stove was actually rusty
on top; that cobwebs lurked in the corners;
and she remembered, with a pang, that the ice-
box had not been cleaned since her mother left.
"My I" ejaculated Mrs. Harris. "Well, I'll
get dinner first, then I '11 tackle this lookin'
room. You set the table, Barbara, — ain't that
your name? — an* I'll do the cookin\ What
meat 'ave you ordered? "
"None," answered Barbara; "I don't ap-
prove of eating meat, and have not allowed
the children to have any for some time. Fa-
ther has been taking his dinners down-town
lately."
" Land alive ! " ejaculated Mrs. Harris, turn-
ing shocked eyes upon Barbara. " The poor
children! An* your paw, — druv from 'is
'ome! Well! You jest go to the telephone,
an' horder a good piece of steak before it 's
too late."
" I prefer not to have meat," said Barbara,
stiffly.
ii2 HOME FROM COLLEGE
Mrs. Harris's face settled into stubborn
lines. " I 've never 'eard of anything so fool-
ish," she declared. "Growin' children need
meat, an* you run right along an* horder that
steak."
It was at this point that Barbara's sense of
diplomacy came to her aid. This woman had
indeed forced herself into the kitchen, but she
was very welcome, nevertheless. She must not
prejudice her at the outset, but must gradually
accustom Mrs. Harris to her views. Barbara
turned away to the telephone. Immediately
Mrs. Harris's manner changed, and she be-
came affable again as she bustled capably
about the kitchen, and assigned small jobs to
her young mistress.
"Hello I" cried Jack, joyfully, as he took
his seat in his father's place, and viewed the
well-cooked steak. "Is the embargo off?
Is this a carving-knife that I see before
me? Why, Barbara! Didst do this thyself,
lass?"
" Jack," said Barbara, nervously, " I have
engaged a new maid and -?- "
THE DUCHESS 113
A decided voice from the kitchen inter-
rupted her.
" Barbara, you come an* git the bread. I 'm
busy."
The children seated around the table stared
at one another.
" Whew I " whispered Jack to Gassy ; " now,
by my halidame, there goes Barbara. Is Pe-
truchio in the kitchen?"
Barbara reentered with scarlet cheeks.
There was something in her manner which
warned even the Kid not to comment The
meal began in absolute silence, another cause
of which may have been the perfectly cooked
dinner, which descended like manna into the
loyal but empty stomachs of the Grafton off-
spring. The Kid ate his steak voraciously,
and eagerly extended his plate for more.
" See 'ow 'e 's ben pinin,>" remarked a voice
from the open doorway.
The children started, and looking up, for
the first time saw the dignified figure of Mrs.
Harris surveying them with a condescendingly
satisfied gaze. " These are all the children, I
ii4 HOME FROM COLLEGE
s'pose, Barbara. Well, now, there's a nice
rice puddin' for dessert, an' then you an* that
little girl can 'elp me clear away to-day, 'cause
there 's so much to do to clean up this 'ouse."
" I don't want any pudding," declared Jack,
in haste, longing to get away to some nook
where he could laugh unseen.
" Set right where you are," said Mrs. Har-
ris, calmly. "You don't get no more to eat
till supper, so you 'd better fill up now."
Jack gasped and obeyed.
Even when dinner was over, and the dishes
washed with the surprised help of a subdued
Gassy, there was no diminution of Mrs. Har-
ris's energy. She cleaned the kitchen thor-
oughly; she scrubbed the bath-room; she
charged upon the children's rooms, and the
dust and dirt retreated in confusion before
her vigorous onslaught She accompanied the
performances with a running fire of ejacu-
latory comment Barbara, with set lips, kept
just behind her, and followed directions with
an injured determination to die in her tracks
before giving up.
THE DUCHESS 115
" I am glad to have such capable help,"
she said, observing Jack in the next room.
"'Eh?" returned Mrs. Harris, looking up
from her dustpan. "Wish I could say the
samel But never mind, you'll learn in
time, I dare say. O* course you've ben in
school an' can't be expected to know much
yet"
Barbara heard a chuckle and subdued ap-
plause from the next room.
"Who's that?" inquired Mrs. Harris, ab-
rupdy. " Oh, it 's your brother. I was lookin'
for'im. What's 'is name? Jack? Well, Jack,
you jest take these rugs out to the back yard
an' beat 'em a litde. They need it"
Jack advanced, hesitating. " I don't know
how to beat rugs," he muttered.
" Well, I '11 show you," said Mrs. Harris,
serenely. " Lend a hand with this big one."
Barbara surveyed with joy the sullen droop
of Jack's back, as he followed his instructor
down the hall.
" Let well enough alone," she called imper-
sonally.
n6 HOME FROM COLLEGE
" Don't you do it ! " exclaimed Mrs. Harris.
" You beat 'em thorough."
" I think we won't do any more," declared
Barbara to Mrs. Harris, as the clock struck
four. "We have been at this all the afternoon,
and I '11 let you leave Jack's room until to-
morrow. We have done enough for to-day."
Mrs. Harris put her hands on her hips and
surveyed Barbara quizzically. "Well, you
ain't used to work, be you ? " she said. " Tired,
I s'pose."
Barbara's face flushed. She was so weary
that she lost the dignity to which she had
been clinging desperately all day.
" Yes, I am tired I " she burst out " I worked
all the morning before you came. Besides,
it *s absurd to fly around like this, trying to
do everything at once. My time is too valu-
able to waste so much of it upon such things
as these."
A queer expression setded upon the fea-
tures of Mrs. Harris. She looked amused, in-
dulgent, and vastly superior.
" Your time too valuable? " she said slowly
THE DUCHESS 117
and calmly ; "your time too valuable ? Well,
young lady, I don't know jest what things
you 've got to do besides taking care of your
brothers and your sister, but I reckon there
ain't nothing better."
Barbara drew a long breath of anger and
walked away.
"It would n't be so bad," she said ruefully
to her father, a few days later, " if only she
did n't assume all the powers and prerogatives
of a sovereign. But she has actually reduced
the children to the most subdued state you
can imagine. Jack never ravages the pantry
now, since Mrs. Harris caught him that first
afternoon, and asked him kindly if he would
mind leaving enough for the rest of us. Even
Gassy never answers her saucily, and David
goes about the house like a crushed piece of
nothing. And yet she isn't a bit cross or
unkind. It's something in her manner that
admits of no disputation. Jack has named her
the Duchess, and it just suits her."
The Doctor laughed. "You mustn't allow
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yourself to be so easily impressed, my dear,"
he said. " I notice, however, that she takes a
great deal of responsibility off your hands,
and that ought to reconcile you to any draw-
backs. I have just sent word to Mrs. Harris
to have dinner at one instead of twelve, as
I shall be busy at the office, and can't get
away so soon."
The words were scarcely out of his mouth
when they saw David returning down the
hall in haste, followed by a tall figure ad-
vancing with majestic tread. The doctor
coughed uneasily.
" Dr. Grafton I " proclaimed the Duchess ;
" David says as 'ow you wants the dinner put
off till one!"
There was an accent of such injury in her
voice that the Doctor found himself saying
hastily : —
" Why, yes, Mrs. Harris, I did send that
message, but — "
" I thought it best to tell you as 'ow it can't
be done," replied the Duchess, with finality,
turning to depart
THE DUCHESS 119
Dr. Grafton caught the smile on Barbara's
face.
" What 's that ? " he said peremptorily ;
" can't be done ? Why not ? "
The Duchess turned back with surprise
written in her large, serene countenance,
" Why not? Why not ? " she repeated. " Why,
because it ain't convenient to change, sir."
Dr. Grafton found himself following her
down the hall. "I'm going to be very busy
and can't get away," he said apologetically.
" Perhaps half-past twelve — "
The Duchess turned again, and contem-
plated him calmly. " Any reason why the rest
must wait for you?" she inquired with up-
lifted eyebrows.
" Why, no," said the Doctor.
"Well, then," answered the Duchess,
" come any time you want You '11 find your
dinner kep' nice an' warm on a plate in the
oven."
Dr. Grafton meekly returned to the living-
room, to find his daughter considerately
averting her face from him. His hearty laugh
120 HOME FROM COLLEGE
brought her back to his side. He threw him-
self on the couch by the window.
" Well, I give up I " he announced. " Was
there ever such a martinet I "
Barbara laughed with him, but her face
quickly sobered. " I really don't think I shall
stand it much longer," she said. "She has
absolutely no regard for my ideas, and pays
no attention to any orders or requests. She
even tells me what she * desires ' for meals."
"They are very good meals," put in the
Doctor, hastily. His mind reviewed the gas-
tronomic comforts of the last few days, and
the uncertainty and scantiness of those meals
before the arrival of the Duchess.
"Don't give Mrs. Harris up, my dear,"
he said, as he rose to depart "You are
forgetting the state of things before she
came, just as it is hard to remember the tooth-
ache when it has finally succumbed to treat-
ment"
A drawling voice from the library broke the
ensuing silence.
" ' It feels so] nice when it stops aching/ "
THE DUCHESS 121
quoted Jack. " Remember those green-apple
pies, Miss Babbie ? "
" Remember those rugs that you beat so
happily ? " retorted Barbara.
" Well, I am going to try to accustom the
Duchess gradually to those regulations which
are necessary ; and if she won't fall into line,
she can — "
"Fall out!" said Jack, prompdy. "Only in
that case, my dear, you will not find the poet
truthful in those charming lines, —
The falling out of faithful friends
Renewing is of love.
You will find it a renewal of — Idgits, I'm
thinking."
But it was another week before the clash
came. A few preliminary skirmishes marked
the passage of time, but Barbara might have .
overthrown theories and plans, however "ne-
cessary," if matters had not been precipitated
by a morning visitor.
"I just thought I'd drop in," said Miss
Bates, coming up to the porch where Barbara
was sitting shelling peas and Gassy was read-
122 HOME FROM COLLEGE
ing. " I wanted to see how you were getting
on. Where you goin', Gassy?"
"To read where people aren't talking,"
answered the little girl as she left the porch.
Miss Bates shook her head sorrowfully. "It's
awful to see how those children act without
their mama," she said. " I don't like to com-
plain, Barbara, but Cecilia's conduct to me is
almost beyond parallel I An' Charles called
me a real naughty name yesterday, when I
took his toy reins off of my gate-posts."
"I'm sorry," said Barbara, mechanically,
putting some peas in with the pods. " I '11
speak to Charles — "
She was interrupted by the voice of one
who called with authority, " Barbara, ain't
them peas done? It's time to put them on."
Barbara excused herself, and carried in the
dish. When she returned, with flaming cheeks,
Miss Bates was watching for her with open
curiosity.
" I heard you quarreling about the pota-
toes," she said. " They say you're completely
changed now, an' that you have n't the say
THE DUCHESS 123
about anything any more, since that English-
woman came ; but I did n't believe it until I
heard you give up about havm' the potatoes
mashed."
They had forgotten the presence of David,
who had been reading in a corner of the
porch all morning.
" You always have your say about every-
thing, don't you ? " he inquired dreamily. " I
wonder how you know so many things people
say. Barbara never does."
"I must go," said Miss Bates, rising ab-
ruptly. "Barbara, since things are all took
off your hands, why don't you spend some
time teaching them children manners ? "
Barbara ate her appetizing dinner in almost
complete silence. The comfort of sitting down
to a well-set table and of staying there
throughout the meal, without rising half a
hundred times for forgotten articles, had no
power to soothe her injured feelings. So all
Auburn was talking about her, and calling her
incompetent, and imposed upon by a woman
who was only a kitchen " help " I It was in-
124 HOME FROM COLLEGE
tolerable, and she would endure it no longer.
She would take the initiative, and once for
all convince Mrs. Harris of the necessity of
subordination.
After dinner, Barbara wiped the dishes, a
task which Mrs. Harris exacted on ironing-
day. Her resentful silence was lost entirely on
the Duchess, whose good-humor was almost
startlingly displayed in conversation.
"I've ben hironin' like a fiend to-day,"
she said in a self-satisfied tone, " an* there '11
be plenty o* time this afternoon to finish,
an' to put up them tomatoes as 'as ben wait-
ing to be put up. You '11 'ave to 'elp, Barbara,
if we 're to get them done in time."
" That will be impossible, I *m afraid," said
Barbara, endeavoring to keep her voice calm.
" Susan Hunt is coming over this afternoon
for a lesson."
" Oh, well, put 'er off," replied the Duchess.
Barbara moved uneasily. " No," she an-
swered steadily. " I don't wish to put her off.
The tomatoes can be put up to-morrow."
" Them tomatoes is just right now, an' it *s
THE DUCHESS 125
so warm, lots o' them will spoil afore mornin',"
the Duchess answered, the smile dying out
of her face. " Go to the telephone, Barbara,
an* tell that 'Unt girl she can't come. She 's
ben runnin' 'ere enough lately, an' I can't get
through them tomatoes alone."
For a moment Barbara wavered. Insuffer-
able as she felt this dictation to be, she thought
of the comfort and order of the house, and
her heart sank at the thought of losing them.
Then Miss Bates's words suddenly came
back to her: "You haven't the say about
anything any more; they say you're com-
pletely changed."
She turned on the unsuspecting Duchess.
" Mrs. Harris," she said determinedly, " you
ordered those tomatoes yesterday, when I had
decided that it was best not to have them until
later, because of the ironing. Now you want
to put them up when it is inconvenient to
me to do so, because you have them on your
hands, and they may spoil. I cannot help you
this afternoon. If you cannot attend to them
alone, let them go until to-morrow, when I
126 HOME FROM COLLEGE
shall be at leisure. We shall simply have to
throw away those tomatoes which are not
good."
Auburn should have seen the expression of
the Duchess. Good-humor gave way to sur-
prise, which was succeeded by disapproval,
in turn to be routed by annoyance. It was not
until the last sentence that a Jove-like rage
sat upon her reddening countenance.
"You wotit do them tomatoes?" she in-
quired in a queer voice.
" No," said Barbara.
"You'll let 'em spoil?" incredulously.
" Yes, if necessary." ,
Mrs. Harris stopped ironing. She reached
out a strong brown hand, and turned out the
gas under the irons. She unrolled the sleeves
of her brown calico dress. Then she turned
slowly toward her resolute mistress.
" Barbara Grafton," she said with an awful
calmness of manner, " you 're an ungrateful,
'ard-'eaded girl, an' I 'm sorry for your family.
I come 'ere to 'elp you hout in your trouble, —
I ain't no common 'elp, — an' you flies in my
THE DUCHESS 127
face whenever you can, an' goes agin me
every chanct you get What does I do about
that? Nothin'. You try to make me spend
my time in frills, an' fussin' over things as
the finest families in Hengland never 'as.
What does I do ? Nothin\ I goes on my way
an' swallers insults from a chit of a girl. I
seen lots o' things sence I come which 'urt
my sensitive disposition, but I passes 'em by.
Now it comes to tomatoes, an' I guess we '11
part. You 're an ungrateful girl, an' I washes
my hands of you."
Mrs. Harris crossed over to the sink, and
solemnly washed and wiped her hands. Then
she put on her faded black bonnet, which
always hung by its rusty strings from a hook
behind the door. She stood a minute, on the
threshold, and looked at Barbara in Olym-
pic sorrow.
" Onct more," she said almost entreatingly,
"will you 'elp with them tomatoes?"
" No," said Barbara.
The screen-door banged loudly. Barbara
was alone again.
CHAPTER VII
"THE FALLING OUT OF FAITHFUL FRIENDS "
THE Kid stamped loudly up the pi-
azza steps, and trotted through the
house to find Barbara. His infant
intellect, assisted by the pangs of his stom-
achy assured him that it was past the din-
ner-hour. And yet no loud-tongued bell,
energetically operated upon by the Duchess,
had summoned him from his play in the dusty
street On such a dire occasion the Kid al-
ways reported to headquarters ; and passing
through the empty dining-room, he came
upon Barbara alone in the kitchen, desper-
ately struggling with a can of salmon. The
Kid stopped on the threshold and stared.
Barbara, with the can in one hand and the
opener in the other, was hotly endeavoring to
effect a combination of the two, with a ndtable
lack of success. At first she held the can in
the air, and attempted to punch a hole in it
FALLING OUT OF FRIENDS 129
with the can-opener ; but as this seemed an
entirely futile course, she gave it up, and
adopted a new method of attack. When
Charles arrived upon the scene of action, she
placed the can firmly on the table, and gave
it a vicious stab with her knife. The tin
yielded; Barbara smiled, and all was proceed-
ing merrily, when a sudden, inexplicable twist
jerked can and can-opener out of her hand
and landed them both on the floor. Barbara
forgot herself, and stamped her foot forci-
bly.
"Where 's Mrs. Harris?" inquired the Kid,
with a look of fearful anticipation gathering
in his eyes.
No reply. His sister picked up the can,
and succeeded in boring a small hole in its
top.
"Say, where's Mrs. Harris ?" repeated the
little boy, anxiously.
"Charles," said Barbara, looking at the
child for the first time, — "mercy, how dirty
you are ! — Charles, dinner will be ready soon.
Mrs. Harris has left us — "
130 HOME FROM COLLEGE
She stopped short in astonishment The
Kid had thrown himself prone upon the floor,
and had broken into loud wails.
"What is it? What is it?" she cried, run-
ning to him and trying to pull him up from
the floor.
The Kid held his tough little body down,
and wept copiously.
Barbara tried sternness. " Charles, get up
this minute," she commanded, " and tell me
what is the matter."
The Kid lifted a woe-begone face to his
sister.
" She 's gone," he said, " and we can't ever
have any more beefsteak, or lamb with gravy."
"Was that what you were crying for?"
asked Barbara, coldly. "Charles, I am dis-
gusted with you. Now you get up and wash
your hands, and dinner will soon be ready."
She sighed as she carried in the salmon,
extracted from the hole in the can in minute
sections, so that it resembled a pile of saw-
dust rather than the body of a fish. She found
herself wishing that it had been possible to
FALLING OUT OF FRIENDS 131
reconcile her desires and Mrs. Harris's com-
mands.
It was a melancholy family that partook
of the pulverized fish, fried potatoes, bread,
butter, and bananas, which constituted Bar-
bara's effort.
"Oh dear!" sighed Jack, as he took his
seat " Variety is the spice of life ; we certainly
have that, so I suppose you think we don't
care for the other spices, having left the pep-
per-cellar in the pantry. I always did like
pepper on fried potatoes."
David lifted his large blue eyes and let them
rest on his elder sister.
" You must be like Cinderella's sisters," he
said reflectively. " Had such an awful temper,
— could n't anybody live with 'em."
Barbara looked angrily at the litde boy,
but his face was so innocent that her heart
softened. She did not answer him, but began
to explain matters to her father, who looked
grave and rather preoccupied. Her story did
not seem to impress him, for some reason,
and Barbara found herself faltering over her
132 HOME FROM COLLEGE
account, and justifying herself in every other
sentence,
"Yes — yes," said the Doctor, abstractedly,
as she finished. "Of course you ought not to
have to put up tomatoes if you don't want
to. Mrs. Harris was a very capable woman,
though, and you are in for another siege,
I 'm afraid. It 's too bad. You will have to try
to get some one else." And, looking at his
watch, he left the table.
Gassy had been quiet during the whole
meal, her elfish locks, bright eyes, and silence
making her more conspicuous than if she had
shouted. After dinner, she soberly enveloped
herself in her large apron, and took her place
at Barbara's side, ready to help her sister.
"I hate dishes," she remarked conversa-
tionally, as she took the first plate in hand.
" They are never over, and they never change.
I must have wiped this Robinson Crusoe plate
of the Kid's at least a million times since
mama went — There I Oh my, Barbara, I 've
broken it!"
"Cecilia! Why don't you hold on to the
FALLING OUT OF FRIENDS 133
things you take in your hands?" cried Bar-
bara. " I never saw such a child ! You break
everything you touch ! "
The child's face flushed. She stood quietly
a moment, and wiped two plates with deftness
and precision. The next moment, Barbara at
the sink suddenly felt as if a whirlwind had
struck the room. A dishcloth went whizzing
upwards until it clung to the clock on the
shelf, a wriggling figure freed itself from a
blue-checked apron, which was flung tumul-
tuously on the floor, and an agitated, retreat-
ing voice exclaimed, "I'll never — never —
NEVER wipe for you again ! There ! "
Barbara finished the work alone, and went
to the porch, with a struggle going on in her
mind. She felt that she was failing, in spite
of her best efforts, — failing with the children,
failing to do the " simple " household tasks,
and to manage the household machinery that
had never been so startlingly in evidence
before. What was the cause of it all?
"Of course I am not very experienced,,,
Barbara said to herself, "but still, with a
134 HOME FROM COLLEGE
moderately good servant, I am sure I could
manage very well The trouble has been with
the frightful maids we have had. And the
children are demoralized by the frequent
changes, and are hard to control. Oh, for one
good cook, so that I could show myself to
be the capable girl that a college girl ought
to be!"
She felt so cheered by her soliloquy, which
she did not realize to be unconscious self-
justification, that she sat down almost happily
to write the daily report that went to brighten
her mother's exile. In spite of all domestic
accidents and crises, this letter was always
written ; and the more lugubrious Barbara's
state of mind, the harder she strove for a
merry report. She had nearly finished the
last sheet, with flying fingers, when a chuckle
caused her to look up, and discover that
Jack had been reading page after page, as
she had discarded it
" Bab," he said, " you certainly do write the
funniest letters I ever read. If you should try
to write a story instead of ' The Absolute In-
FALLING OUT OF FRIENDS 135
ness of the Internal Entity/ you would make
your fortune immediately. I don't see how
you can write one way and feel another,
as you do."
Barbara's reply was checked by the ap-
pearance of Susan, and Jack disappeared,
carrying the letter with him.
" I 'm so glad to see you ! " said Barbara,
cordially. "Did you bring your Browning
with you ? "
" Yes," answered Susan, sitting down in
the big cane rocker. "Yes, I brought him,
and a basket of mending besides. I am
awfully behind in it, and I can talk and darn
at the same time."
The glad light faded out of Barbara's eyes.
" Why, Sue dear ! " she said, " that 's impos-
sible. No one could possibly study Browning
and do anything else at the same time. He
absorbs all the energy and attention that one
has."
" Oh dear ! " sighed Susan. " I did want to
begin our lessons to-day, but we '11 have to put
it off till to-morrow, then. Bob leaves for New
136 HOME FROM COLLEGE
York to-night, you know, and he must have
all the socks that I can muster."
" Are you really going to mend those things
now, instead of reading the 'Ring' with
me?"
Susan looked up quickly. "Why, what
else can I do?" she said. "Bob must have
decent clothes, and we can begin the * Ring '
to-morrow."
" Very well," responded Barbara, icily. " Of
course Browning doesn't mean so much to
you as he does to me. But I considered our
engagement to read this afternoon so bind-
ing that I have just lost Mrs. Harris in con-
sequence."
" Lost Mrs. Harris in consequence ? " re-
peated Susan. " Why, Barbara, how ? "
"She insisted upon putting up tomatoes
this afternoon when I could n't help her,
because of our engagement, and — well, she
would n't stay when I was firm," replied Bar-
bara, wishing that the subject of disagreement
had been a litde more dignified. " Really,
Susan, that woman was insufferable."
FALLING OUT OF FRIENDS 137
" And you let her go for that ? " eried Susan,
in a surprised voice.
" Yes," answered Barbara.
Susan jabbed her big needle into a large
sock, with energy. Her friend watched her
with uninterested gaze. Suddenly Susan
stopped, and looked at Barbara with an ex-
pression of determination.
" Babbie," she said with an air of hav-
ing summoned up her courage, — " Babbie, I
hope you won't think me officious, but I feel
that I must tell you some things. Even if I
am not a college girl, I have learned a good
deal about common things in these four quiet
years at home. You are having a hard time,
my dear, as everybody knows. Of course
every one talks about it. But I don't know
what people will say when they find out why
Mrs. Harris left, — for of course they will find
out."
Susan stopped her incoherent outburst, and
eyed Barbara doubtfully. Then she went on.
" It was dreadful of you to let Mrs. Harris
go, when she had been so kind. What if she
138 HOME FROM COLLEGE
did go contrary to your ideas 1 Some of them
are queer, you know, and why did you care,
anyway, so long as your poor family were taken
care of comfortably? You can't get along
without a maid, Barbara, — it 's all too much
for you. But I 'm afraid you '11 find it hard to
get any one to come, now."
Susan stopped uncertainly.
" Do finish," said a cold voice from the
hammock.
Susan looked at the motionless figure lying
in an attitude of superior attentiveness, and
her color rose.
" Barbara, I can't let it go on," she broke
out. " If no one suffered but yourself, it would
be different But the children are affected,
too. David never looked so really ill as he
does now; and if you are not careful, you
will find him sick on your hands. Your father
is worn and worried all the time, and you
yourself are as thin as a rail. It 's because you
don't accommodate yourself to circumstances.
You insist upon carrying out some absurd
theoretical ideas in the face of practical
FALLING OUT OF FRIENDS 139
difficulties. And I hate to have people talk
about you as they do."
As these last words fell upon her ears, Bar-
bara sprang up from the hammock. Her eyes
were flashing, and her dignity had utterly
disappeared.
" Don't ever say that to me again ! " she
cried excitedly. " I don't care a continental
what people say about me 1 Just because I
have been away all these years and have had
superior advantages, all the people of Auburn
discuss me and criticise me, and are — well,
jealous 1 "
" Do you mean that I am jealous ? " asked
Susan, an unusual light in her soft blue eyes.
" That makes no difference," retorted Bar-
bara. " The truth of the matter is, that you
have stayed here, and have had some experi-
ence in housekeeping, and you have grown to
think that it is so important that nothing else
is of value to you — none of the higher things.
If that is what you and Auburn mean, — that
I care more for, — yes, Browning, and litera-
ture, and the real issues of life, than for house-
140 HOME FROM COLLEGE
keeping, — then you are quite right I do.
And I always shall And I must say that I
resent any interference whatever."
There was a long silence. Then Susan rose,
biting her lips, to hide their trembling. " I
must go," she said.
" Can't you stay longer?" asked Barbara,
politely.
" No, I 'm afraid not," replied Susan.
To both girls, the very air was full of con-
straint Barbara accompanied her visitor to
the gate, where they parted with scarcely a
word. Then she turned back swifdy to the
porch, and sat down in the chair just vacated
by Susan. She pressed her hand to her
temples.
" I must think this out," she said aloud.
" Could I have been wrong ? "
Some time later, the Kid cantered up to the
porch. He went straight to a bowed figure
in the big chair, and pulled down the hands
from the hidden face.
" I 'm hungry, Barb'ra," he said. " Is n't sup-
per ready?"
FALLING OUT OF FRIENDS 141
Barbara put her arms around him, and
hugged him tightly.
"You like me, little brother, don't you?"
she said.
" Of course," answered the Kid, noncha-
lantly ; " and I 'm hungry."
Barbara took him by the hand, and led him
gently into the house.
" I think I can find something for hungry
little boys," she said.
CHAPTER VIII
APPLIED PHILANTHROPY
DADDY, please fasten me up," said
Barbara.
The doctor thrust two large hands
inside of her gown, in the man's way, using
them as fulcrums over which to pull the fragile
fabric with all the force of two strong thumbs.
" Pretty snug, is n't it ? " he said. " Where
are you going in your Sunday best ? — mill
or meeting ? "
Barbara shook out the folds of her violet
gown. "Meeting," she responded. "The Wo-
man's Club has asked me to give them a
paper to-day."
" The Woman's Club I What has become
of the A. L. L. A.?"
" The Auburn Ladies' Literary Association
is still in existence, unfortunately. But it is n't
going to be long."
" Why not ? " asked her father.
APPLIED PHILANTHROPY 143
" It 's going to have its name changed, if
I have any influence with its members," said
Barbara. "Isn't it absurd for it to go on
calling itself 'Ladies9 Literary Association/
just because it has been used to the tide for
thirty years, when every other women's organi-
zation in the country is 'Woman's Club '? And
' Literary 7 Did you ever hear of anything so
pretentious I Nobody is literary nowadays,
but Tolstoi and Maeterlinck, Besides, the
name debars the members from philanthropic
and civic work, which are the moving factors
in all club life. I shall certainly make an effort
to have the other members change the name,
this very day."
" You 'd better keep your hands off,"
laughed the doctor. "The A. L. L. A. is
Auburn's Holy of Holies. What are you
going to ' stand and deliver 9 before it ? "
" One of my college papers. I have n't had
time to write anything new since the Duchess
left It 's on the ' Psychology of the Child in
Relation to Club Work.' I had to piece on
half the tide to make it appropriate."
144 HOME FROM COLLEGE
The suspicion of a twinkle lurked about
the doctor's eyes. " Well, good luck to you,"
he said ; " the Literary Association may not
approve of your paper, but it can't find fault
with your dress."
"You don't know what you 're talking
about," said Jack. "That garb is like all the
rest of Barbara, — it's too irritatingly new
to pass unscathed in Auburn. Is that churn
effect the Umpire Style, Barb ? "
" It can't rouse any more criticism than it
has already had," said his sister. "I shan't
care what they say about the gown, if they
only hear my message."
With subdued swish of black silk skirts, and
a decorous silencing of whispers, the Auburn
Ladies' Literary Association came to order.
Barbara, with veiled amusement, looked about
the familiar "parlors" of the Presbyterian
church. The standard and banner, with the.
legend " Honor Class," had been moved into
a corner, the melodeon, stripped of its green
cover, stood in walnut nakedness on the plat-
APPLIED PHILANTHROPY 145
form, and a sprawling bunch of carnations
and a gavel ornamented the superintendent's
desk. The map of Palestine, done in colored
chalk, had been partially erased from the
blackboard at the head of the room, and
beneath it was written the following
Program
Roll Call. Answered by quotations from Shakespeare.
Instrumental Solo. " Murmuring Zephyrs."
Miss Martha Crary.
Recitation. " Queen of the Flowers."
Miss Hypatia Harrison.
Paper. " Geo. Eliot's Life, Character, and Position as a
Novelist."
Mrs. Abbie Penfold.
Vocal Solo. " Night Sinks on the Wave."
Miss Libbie Darwin.
Address. "The Literary Atmosphere of Our Club."
Mrs. Angie Bankson.
\a. Macbeth.
\b. Daisy's Daisies.
Miss Coleman.
Paper. "Psychology of the Child in Relation to Club
Work."
Miss Barbara Prentice Grafton.
Readings. «] .
i46 HOME FROM COLLEGE
" It 's to be hoped that Abbie's and Angie's
are not so long as mine," thought Barbara,
irreverently, " or there '11 be no one to put the
Grafton mackerel to soak to-night ; to say
nothing of all the winds and waves that must
be passed through before they come to me."
It was the " wind and wave " part of the
program that appealed to the audience. The
papers were accorded polite attention, as be-
fitted Auburn manners, but the musical num-
bers and readings were followed by the sub-
dued hum that is an expression of club delight.
For Barbara, the entire entertainment of the
day was not furnished by the program. Be-
tween the swaying fans she caught glimpses
of Mrs. Enderby's placid face, relaxed in sleep ;
from the church kitchen came the rattle of
paper napkins and the clink of Miss Petti-
bone's tray, and from the rear of the room
sounded, at intervals, the cough of Mrs.
Crampton, a genteel warning to speakers
that their voices did not " carry."
"Was there ever a human being more
frightfully out of her element than I am
APPLIED PHILANTHROPY 147
herel " thought Barbara. " If the House-Plant
could only see Mrs. Enderby ! But she *s no
more asleep than all the rest of them. What
am I going to do to wake them up ! "
This thought was uppermost in her mind
as the afternoon was tinkled and applauded
away. It was more than ever prominent as
the precise, ladylike voice of Mrs. Bankson
was raised a half-tone higher in her closing
paragraph : —
" But, however, after all is said and done,
it is the literary atmosphere that makes our
club what it is. The dearly-loved paths that
we have followed for many years have led us
to lofty summits and ever-widening vistas,
but never away from our original goal. The
Ever-Womanly has always been our aim, and,
while less substantial ambitions have fluttered
by on airy wing, and the thunder of the new
woman has rolled even upon our peaceful hori-
zon, we have never faltered in our footsteps.
" On, on we go in our devotion to literature.
And, as one of the most notable of our lady
poets has so aptly expressed it, —
148 HOME FROM COLLEGE
Still forever yawns before our eyes
An Utmost, that is veiled."
A ladylike patter of applause, and a more
active flutter of fans, greeted the end of the
speech. The back door creaked violendy, and
Miss Pettibone's round face appeared in the
opening to see if time for refreshment had
come. It disappeared suddenly as Miss Cole-
man mounted the platform to impersonate,
first a bloody Macbeth, and then a swaying
field daisy. And, finally, Barbara Prentice
Grafton and the Empire gown faced the Lit-
erary Association.
Later, when she recalled the afternoon, Bar-
bara was surprised to remember how little of
her original paper she had used. The trivial-
ity of the program had supplied her with text
enough, and the "Psychology of the Child"
was partially diverted into a sermon upon the
aimlessness of a purely literary club. In her
earnestness she was carried beyond caution.
" I call you to new things," rang out her
resolute voice, in conclusion. " Literary effort
in club life is outworn. You can read your
APPLIED PHILANTHROPY 149
Homer alone, but it takes concentrated, com-
bined interest to accomplish the vital things
of living. You have read too long. It is phi-
lanthropy we need in Auburn, — civic im-
provement, educational effort that shall be for
the masses rather than our selfish selves. I
call you to this. I ask you to work with me
for the good of our town and our people."
The effect of Barbara's personal magnetism
was never more strongly evidenced than by
the genuine applause that greeted her effort
The Literary Association might disapprove
her theories and her violet gown, but her sin-
cerity was inspiring. The Auburn mothers
caught the contagion in her voice, and were
interested, if not convinced.
There was a momentary pause as the ap-
plause subsided. Then Barbara said earnestly:
" I 'm afraid I may have been too abstract in
my statements. But I have very definite ideas
of what might be done in Auburn that would
be most beneficial to our children and our-
selves. The crSche that I spoke of is one of
them. If any of you care to ask any questions,
150 HOME FROM COLLEGE
I shall be glad to answer them. If I can/'
she added more modestly.
Mrs. Enderby, who had been aroused from
her nap just in time to hear Barbara's ringing
close, rose to the occasion. To her a question
was a question. " Miss Barbara," she inquired,
an interested expression on her rested face,
" do you believe in children going barefoot
this hot weather ? "
Barbara looked surprised. "W-why, n-no,"
she said.
"Oh," said Mrs. Enderby, conversation-
ally, "I was wondering."
' There was another pause. Then Mrs. Bel-
lows rose in her place. " Did I understand
you to say Kreysh ? "
"Yes," said Barbara "A day-nursery
would be the first form of philanthropy I
should advise for Auburn."
" What need, if I may ask," inquired Mrs.
Bellows, impressively, " has Auburn for a day-
nursery ? "
Barbara explained the relief to the mother
and the good to the child.
APPLIED PHILANTHROPY 151
"It seems to me," remarked Mrs. Bellows,
" that a Kretch is about as necessary here as
two tails to a cat If there *s a death or sick-
ness in the family, I send the children over
to Lib's. Otherwise, I 'd rather have them at
home. They gad enough as it is."
"Do you mean that the mothers are to
take turns in taking care of all the children
in town ? " asked Mrs. Penfold.
" My goodness!" murmured Mrs. Enderby.
" It saves the children from the moving-
picture shows and the cheap theatres that are
among the most pernicious of evil influences/'
said Barbara. " It keeps them off the street
and out of bad company " —
" Not if she lets that Charles attend," whis-
pered Mrs. Bellows to the woman in the next
chair. "I've forbidden Sydney to play with
him."
"And gives the mothers a vacation. In-
stead of the care of their litde ones every
day, they have charge of them possibly two
afternoons a summer."
"I'd hate to trust my boys to Bertha
Enderby," whispered Mrs. Bellows again.
152 HOME FROM COLLEGE
In the discussion that followed, Barbara
offered her most convincing inducement "I 'm
not a mother," she said, "but I am willing to
do my part toward furthering the work. If I
can have cooperation in the establishment of
the nursery, I '11 give my time, in turn, to it.
And I think — I'm not certain about it, but I
think I may be able to furnish the room for
the purpose."
The novelty of the idea carried the day
with the younger members of the club, and
when Barbara took her place again, the seed
of the enterprise had been planted. But her
second mission to the Association met with
less favorable result The suggestion for the
change of name met with decided opposition.
" It does n't seem ladylike to call it Wo-
man's Club," objected Mrs. Angie Bankson.
" The name has been good enough for us for
thirty years," said Mrs. Bellows, with acerbity,
"A. L. L. A. makes such a good mono-
gram," sighed Miss Lillie Beckett, who de-
signed the programs for the club on state
occasions.
APPLIED PHILANTHROPY 153
Mrs. Enderby's sleep had filled her with
good-will toward the world, and she amiably
proposed a compromise. " Why not keep our
old initials," she said, "and take another
name, each word beginning with the same
letter as the old one ? "
" What, for instance ? " demanded Mrs. Bel-
lows. " Do you happen to think of any ? "
The sarcasm of the speech was lost on
Mrs. Enderby.
" Well, Auburn for the first word," she sug-
gested mildly.
But when put to vote, the motion was lost.
The Auburn Ladies' Literary Association tri-
umphed, and the " Woman's Club " died be-
fore it was born.
"That snip of a Barbara Grafton I" said
Mrs. Bellows to her neighbor, as the pink
sherbet and the paper napkins went around.
" The idea of her being invited to address us,
and then giving that fool advice to women
that knew her when she should have been
spanked ! I 'd never send a child of mine to
college, if I had all the money in the world.
154 HOME FROM COLLEGE
Normal school can do enough harm. I did n't
know she could be such a fool ! Kretch / "
Susan leaned over from the next chair.
" Barbara is n't a fool, Mrs. Bellows," she said
warmly; "she's the cleverest girl I ever
knew."
" In books, maybe," sniffed Mrs. Bellows.
" No, in everything," said Susan. " It is in
books that she 's had the most training, but
she is just as clever in other things. She's
had an awful time this summer with sickness,
and poor help, and housework, and no ex-
perience in any of them. Any one else would
have been discouraged long ago. But she has
stuck it out, and been big and brave and
cheerful about it, to give her mother a chance
to get well. I can't let any one say anything
against Barbara."
The two women looked their surprise at
the warm defense from quiet Susan.
" It 's her theories I object to, not her," said
Mrs. Bellows.
"She won't keep them all," said Susan.
"She'll always be loyal to her own convic-
APPLIED PHILANTHROPY 155
tions, just as she is now ; but she '11 find out
later that some of them are not so worth while
as she is herself. Then she '11 sift them out"
" I wish she 'd hurry up with her sifting,
then," said Mrs. Bellows.
Barbara, in the meantime, had not waited
for her sherbet, but had hurried home to pre-
pare the meal, In the evening she laid the
matter of the nursery before her father, and
was surprised to be met with some of the same
objections that had been advanced at the
woman's club.
" But mayn't I try?" she pleaded finally.
"I see your heart is set on it," said the
doctor. "I'm not going to refuse you the
carriage-house for the use of your children,
though I do think you won't need it more
than once. Auburn has no real poor, you
know. Only, Barbara, dotit take any more
upon yourself this hot weather ! The Kid is
a whole day-nursery, himself."
It took all Barbara's leisure time from Mon-
day until Thursday, which was the appointed
day for the opening, to get the deserted, dusty
156 HOME FROM COLLEGE
carriage-house in order ; to coax sulky Sam,
the stable-boy, to move the accumulation of
broken-down sleighs and phaetons into a cor-
ner ; to hire two women to sweep, scrub, and
dust floors, windows, and walls, in order to
make the carriage-house fit for an afternoon's
habitation by the many clean, starched chil-
dren whom she hoped to see. But it was
worth it, — oh, yes, it was worth it 1 — and Bar-
bara's heart glowed with enthusiasm at the
idea of driving the entering wedge of civic
improvement into the flinty heart of staid
Auburn.
Meanwhile the house suffered. Dr. Grafton
was called away at meal-times with conspicu-
ous frequency. Gassy, David, and the Kid did
not object greatly, for their imaginations were
fired by the elaborate preparations for the
" party," which the Kid firmly believed to be
held in honor of his birthday, three months
past. But Jack protested bitterly.
" Another ' walk-around ' ! " he ejaculated,
coming in at six o'clock Wednesday evening,
and gazing blankly at the bare dining-room.
APPLIED PHILANTHROPY 157
"Say, Barb, a fellow that's been canoeing
all afternoon has an appetite that reaches
from Dan to Beersheba. I don't want to make
you mad, but I feel mighty like Mother Hub-
bard's dog."
Barbara looked up nervously. " Now, Jack,
what difference does it make to you whether
you sit at table with the others and use up
hundreds of dishes, or eat in the kitchen and
save my time ? The bread is in the pantry
with butter and raspberries, and there is some
cold meat in the ice-box. Cut all you want
Besides, I have sent Charles over to Miss
Pettibone's for a blueberry pie."
Jack looked unwontedly cross. " Sometimes
I think you are the camel that edged himself
into the tent and crowded out his master,"
he said. " These walk-arounds on Sunday
nights were pleasant enough at first, with
everything piled on the kitchen table, so that
we walked around with a sandwich in each
hand ; but it comes so often now that it seems
as if ' every day '11 be Sunday by and by.' "
Barbara's reply was checked by the sudden
i58 HOME FROM COLLEGE
appearance of the Kid, bearing a disk in both
hands. The paper covering was torn and
spotted with blue patches, and a broad stain
extended the full length of his blouse. He put
his burden carefully on the table, and turned
apologetically to Barbara.
"I may have dropped that pie; I don't
remember," he said.
" N. P., no pie for me ! " declared Jack. " Au
revoir, Miss Grafton. Peter asked me over
to supper, and there 's still time to overtake
him."
Away went Jack, lustily chanting "The
Roast Beef of Old England." Barbara fed the
Kid to the brim, feeling somewhat guilty
when she met his clear young eyes full of
affectionate trust in his big sister. It was too
bad to offer up the family on the altar of phi*
lanthropy. The Infant's cruel prediction as
to a Jellyby future came back to her, but the
ends justified the means in this case.
The next morning was so clear, warm, and
bright, that Barbara's spirits rose to fever
heat This was the day of her opportunity to
APPLIED PHILANTHROPY 159
loosen the bondage of Auburn mothers, and
to take the first step toward raising them to
higher standards of ease and culture. Her
face beamed as she sped downstairs to do
the daily tasks which awaited her. Breakfast
was ready long before any one appeared to
partake of it ; dishes were washed in haste,
beds made in a trice, — just this once ! — and
dusting passed over entirely.
All Barbara's morning was spent in plan-
ning games, in decorating the carriage-house
with flags, in going to Miss Pettibone's for the
dozens of cookies which she had ordered, and
in finding cool space in the refrigerator for
twelve bottles of milk. The children were to
come at two ; and at half-past one Barbara sat
on the porch, dressed in a simple white gown,
waiting for the first arrival and for her assist-
ant, Mrs. Enderby.
At five minutes after two, there were no
children. At ten minutes past, still no children.
At fifteen minutes after two, Mrs. Enderby's
fat, placid self waddled up to the doctor's
gate.
i
?6o HOME FROM COLLEGE
" My children are coming along," she said.
" It 's awful warm. I 've brought a palm-leaf
fan. I can fan the children, if you want me to.
Any come yet ? "
" No, not yet," replied Barbara. She had
been awaiting the arrival of Mrs. Enderby
with that desire for moral support which a new
undertaking always brings upon its authors.
Mrs. Enderby, as the mother of six children,
might well be expected to furnish any amount
of support derived from experience ; but
somehow, as Barbara looked at her, she felt
that she had made a great mistake. A cushion
cannot serve as a propelling-board ; and poor
Mrs. Enderby looked very cushiony.
She sat rocking slowly and evenly on the
porch. " If no one comes by three o'clock,"
she said, " I think I '11 leave and go over to
Main Street to see the new moving pictures.
I forgot about them when I promised to help."
" Oh, I am sure some children will come,"
Barbara replied hastily. " It is such a fine
chance for the mothers to rest."
At quarter of three, it seemed to the con-
APPLIED PHILANTHROPY 161
fused girl that all Auburn was invading her
lawn in a body. Streams of small children,
dragged along by elder brothers, sisters,
nurses, and mothers, descended upon the
house like a flood. The air resounded with
the shrieks of suddenly deserted youngsters,
with the threats and warnings of their depart-
ing guardians, with the consolations of Bar-
bara, Mrs. Enderby, and Gassy herself. Just
as suddenly as they had come, all the natural
protectors left, with singular unanimity, Bar-
bara thought. It was not at all as she had
planned. There had been no grateful approach
of a mother at a time to meet the white-robed,
calm hostess ; no pleasant chat, no graceful re-
assurance of a child's safety. But an enormous
wave had broken upon the Grafton house and
as quickly retreated, leaving thirty-nine peb-
bles of assorted sizes on the shore. Thirty-
nine ! Barbara gasped.
Her first step was to sweep the children to
the carriage-house in a body. Mrs. Enderby
led the procession, waddling along like a very
fat hen, with innumerable little chickens run-
162 HOME FROM COLLEGE
ning after. Barbara brought up the rear, anx-
iously counting thirty-nine over and over to
herself. Loyal little Gassy kept her eyes upon
the children as if she had been transformed
into a faijhful watch-dog. And the Kid him-
self seemed to exercise a remarkable amount
of oversight ; he was waiting for the presents
which were, of course, the object of a birth-
day party.
Barbara's whole subsequent recollection of
the afternoon lay in a picture, — the one which
greeted her as she stepped into the carriage-
house, gently pushing the last of the flock
before her. The large room seemed to her
bewildered eyes fairly decorated with children.
Every broken-down buggy and sleigh was
filled with more than its quota, and prancing
steeds were tugging at the ancient shafts in
vain. In a corner of the room, ten boys were
fighting for possession of a dilapidated har-
ness. Shrieks of delight were rising from the
hay-mow above her head, and thin little legs
were running up and down the upright lad-
der with spider-like agility.
APPLIED PHILANTHROPY 163
Barbara gasped. "Mrs. Enderby!" she
exclaimed. " How shall we ever get them to-
gether again I "
Mrs. Enderby did not answer. She stood
in the middle of the room with her fan idle in
her hand and her head turned backward as
far as it would go. Involuntarily following
her gaze, Barbara looked up and saw a sight
which haunted her in dreams forever after.
Fifteen feet above the floor, a long, narrow
beam extended horizontally from one edge
of the hay-mow to the opposite wall. Sitting
on the beam, with legs dangling down, sat
seventeen children, one behind another, so
tightly wedged that there would not have
been space for even half a child more. Wrig-
gling, twisting, turning upon one another, —
and at any instant the slender beam might
break 1
It was litde Gassy who saw the look of
frozen horror on Barbara's face, and took
action first Without a word she sprang up
the ladder and out to the edge of the hay-
mow. There she called out : —
i64 HOME FROM COLLEGE
" Each kid that comes back now, slowly
and carefully, gets a cookie ! "
No one moved. Mrs. Enderby down below
dropped her fan and began walking up and
down beneath the beam, with her ample
skirts outspread to catch any child overcome
by dizziness.
" A raisin cookie ! " cried Gassy.
No one stirred.
" With nuts in it ! "
The child nearest the hay-loft began to
wriggle backwards. " I get first choice I " she
said.
" Second 1"
"Third!"
The line took up the slow wriggle, and
Barbara below watched, with her skirts also
extended. She could think of nothing else
to do.
"Slowly!" shouted Gassy militandy. " Keep
below there, Mrs. Enderby. Each kid has to
go down the ladder to Barbara for the cookie,
an* stay down. Then we '11 play down there."
Children respond quickly to an appeal to the
APPLIED PHILANTHROPY 165
stomach. In less than five minutes, seventeen
children were munching seventeen cookies,
and a rousing game of "Drop the Hand-
kerchief" had been started by a now thor-
oughly alert Barbara. Most of the children
joined in with gusto. Mrs. Enderby picked up
her palm-leaf, and tapped Gassy with it ap-
provingly.
"Now you can just keep on helping by
counting thirty-nine over and over again,"
she said.
Game succeeded game. London Bridge
fell down in weary repetition for Barbara.
The players assured themselves unto seventy
times seven times that " King Willyum was
King George's Son. " A trousers button had
to be pressed into each child's hand as a hid-
ing-place. Six children at different times were
hurt, and cried. Mrs. Enderby, now that the
danger was over, took her chair into a corner
and went to sleep behind her fan. But faith-
ful Gassy remained at the front, singing with
rare abandon and helping to lead each game.
Barbara herself was so engrossed in wiping
166 HOME FROM COLLEGE
away youthful tears, and in singing, that she
did not notice the gradual diminution of her
forces until Gassy suddenly took her aside.
" Barbara," she said anxiously, "there are
only twenty-seven kids in this room ; where
are the others?"
Barbara counted hastily ; looked up in the
hay-mow ; gave a wild glance into the aban-
doned vehicles. It was true ; the Kid himself
was missing. Then she crossed over to Mrs.
Enderby and touched her shoulder.
" Mrs. Enderby," she said, " I am afraid
you will have to take 'King William' with
Gassy, while I look for twelve children who
seem to be missing."
She flung open the door, and looked around.
No children. Some odd instinct led her to-
wards her own house. As she approached, the
dining-room door facing the carriage-house
suddenly opened, and a swarm of little boys
issued forth. Little boys they were, but little
goblins they looked to be, so impish were their
faces, so bedraggled their appearance. Each
boy held in one hand a milk-bottle, which he
APPLIED PHILANTHROPY 167
was applying to his lips in infant fashion ; each
blouse was bulging with rapidly disappearing
cookies. Barbara's refreshments were almost
a thing of the past.
As she rushed over to the group, it disin-
tegrated, and in the centre, deserted by all
his fellows in crime, stood the guilty Kid.
There were no words suitable for the occa-
sion, and therefore Barbara said nothing.
Under her stern gaze, the Kid visibly shrunk.
His milk-bottle dropped from his hand and
splashed them both. He began to weep most
violently.
"Oh, I don't like birthday parties," he
sobbed. " They did n't bring any presents this
time ; I asked 'em. An' we got tired o' games,
so we went wading in the creek an' got all
wet. An' nen we were hungry an' I thought
you did forget the supper — "
Wading ! Barbara glanced around at the
little boys, and at the rest of the troop which
had filtered from the carriage-house. Were
these the children that had come to her house
several hours before — these unrecognizable
168 HOME FROM COLLEGE
gamins f The boys were the most torn ; but
even the girls seemed lost in dirt and disorder.
Mrs. Enderby made her leisurely way up
to Barbara, and began to fan her placidly.
"They're all here," she said; "I've just
counted the thirty-nine of 'em. And here
comes the mothers again, so our labors are
over."
Again the strange influx of parents and
guardians, which had so puzzled Barbara
before. Again the receding wave, carrying the
pebbles back this time.
Barbara was vaguely conscious of choruses
of remarks singularly alike in character.
"James Greenleaf, where is your hat?" —
" Robbie, you dirty boy, come here " — "Mar-
tha, how did you tear your apron so ? " She
realized that she was not being thanked as
much as was her proper due. But all she
wished to do on earth was to get to her own
room to rest — not to think.
It was not until next morning, however,
that the final blow fell. A very relaxed Bar-
bara sat at the head of the breakfast-table,
APPLIED PHILANTHROPY 169
and around its corner Jack was looking at her
quizzically.
" What beats me," he said, " is why you
should have been willing to do all that work
in order that the mothers of the enlightened
A. L. L. A. should be enabled to go almost in
a body to see the opening of the new moving-
picture theatre. Do you believe so heartily in
the ' culchah ' of those things? "
"Jack!" cried Barbara, starting from her
seat "Jack, they did tit do that, did they?"
"They sure did," responded her cruel
brother. " Nineteen maternal parents of the
thirty-nine were visible to me from my seat
in the back row. They had the time of their
lives."
Barbara's eyes filled with tears at this dis-
appointment of her hopes. As she struggled
hard to keep them back, she caught the
glance of her father, — so apprehensive, so
tender, and yet so amused, that, although the
tears came from her eyes, laughter also
sounded from her lips.
" ' Here endeth the first lesson/ " she said.
CHAPTER IX
" WITHOUT "
THE alarm-clock under Barbara's pil-
low sent forth a muffled ratde, like
a querulous old woman with tooth-
ache, complaining from beneath her band-
ages. The girl turned over in bed and sighed.
A moment later the town-clock struck six, with
insistent note, and after a sympathetic delay
of a minute more, the living-room clock below
sounded its admonition. Sleepily and reluc-
tantly Barbara drew forth the alarm-clock to
make sure of the worst.
" It }s always six o'clock," she said crossly.
Then she slammed the offender down upon
the bed, and set her bare feet upon the floor
with a thud that betokened no happy morning
spirit Oh, for those luxurious days at college
when a closed transom and an " engaged "
sign upon the door insured sufficient slumber
after a night of school-girl dissipation ! Not
"WITHOUT" 171
since the nightmare of housekeeping had
attacked her rest, two months before, had
" Babbie the Nap-kin," as she was jocularly
known at college, had enough sleep. This
starting the day with heavy eyes, and body
that sighed for rest, was a new thing. How
had her mother done it, all these years?
Probably as she, Barbara, was doing it now ;
— there was no one else to share it with
her.
The same old routine, — Barbara wearily
went over it: Unlock the doors, open the
windows ; light the fire, put the kettle on, take
the food out of the ice-box, skim the milk,
grind the coffee, make the toast, set the table,
rouse the sleepers. Every one of the mornings
in the year her mother had done it, or super-
intended the doing of it. Three hundred and
sixty-five mornings, for twenty-three years.
8395 times ! Barbara shuddered.
It was hot and stuffy downstairs. The chairs
were set about at untidy angles, and the sun
blazed in fiercely at the window. The kitchen
door-knob was sticky to the touch, and a
172 HOME FROM COLLEGE
bold cockroach ran across the back porch as
she opened the door. Was this summer hot-
ter and more disagreeable than usual, or was
it possible that Mrs. Grafton had been respon-
sible for the cool, shaded rooms and the fresh
morning air that had always greeted Bar-
bara when she arrived upon the scene of
action ? For the third time in her experience
the girl considered herself with misgiving.
Was it possible that housekeeping was a
science, instead of merely an occupation, —
to be learned by study, and experiment,
and experience, just like philosophy? Was
it even possible that she, Barbara Grafton,
called " The Shark " at college, was, for the
first time in her life, to fail miserably in a
" course " ?
Dr. Grafton and David were the only mem-
bers of the family who responded to the
breakfast-bell. The doctor drank his under-
done coffee and ate his over-done toast with-
out comment ; the small boy bent contentedly
over a bowl of bread and milk. Barbara
herself ate nothing.
"WITHOUT" 173
" What 's the matter, girl ? " asked her
father. " Are n't you well ? "
" I 'm all right, only not hungry."
" I 'm afraid you 're working too hard. I
can't have you losing your appetite and
looking like a ghost. Don't you hear of a
cook?"
Barbara shook her head.
" I 'm afraid we '11 have to make other sort
of arrangement, then. Perhaps Mrs. Clemens
will take us all to board until we hear of some
help. I '11 try to see her to-day. I don't mind
the meals, — my stomach is proof against
anything! — but I can't have you sick."
Her father laid a tender hand on her shoul-
der, and gave her a playful little pat as he
left the room. But Barbara felt anything but
playful. Her eyes flashed, and her lips set in
a hard, bitter line. "My stomach is proof
against anything ! " Such a stupid joke, —
such a cruel bit of pleasantry I There were
unshed tears in her voice, as well as her eyes,
as she went to the stairway and called up,
crossly : " Jack, Cecil — ia ! "
174 HOME FROM COLLEGE
There was no answer. Repeated calls
brought forth an angry response from Gassy,
and a lazy one from Jack.
" Breakfast is all over. If you 're not down
in five minutes, there '11 be nothing for you ;
I 'm not going to let my dishes stand all
morning ! "
Gassy deigned no answer. Dangerously
near the time-limit, Jack appeared.
" The wind seems to be from the east this
morning," he remarked casually.
Barbara did not answer.
" Was there anything special requiring my
attendance at this witching hour of the
morn ? "
" The lawn-mower," said his sister, sharply.
" Ah, I thought it must be a-telegram or
a fire, — judging from your agonized voice."
" If it had been a fire, you would have had
to be roused ! When you have n't an earthly
thing to do about the house, Jack, I do think
that you might get up in time for breakfast."
"You have some new theories since you
began housekeeping. I have some faint re-
"WITHOUT" 175
collections about your being the last man
in the house to rise, a few weeks ago. I 'm
sorry, though, I overslept, Barb. I got up the
minute you called.
I roused me from my slumbers,
I hied me from my bed.
If I had known what breakfast was,
I would have slept, instead.
Excuse me for turning up my trousers. The
coffee seems to be somewhat muddy.' '
The storm that had been threatening all
the morning came at last College dignity
was forgotten, and Barbara became a cross,
over-worked, over-heated child, with a strong
sense of grievance.
" Jack Grafton, you are a lazy, selfish, in-
considerate beast! If you had to do any-
thing but eat the meals, you would n't
criticise them so sharply. You know I 'm
doing the best I can, — you know it ! — and
it 's so hot, and there 's so much work — "
David's serious brown eyes looked reproach
at his older brother.
"I'm sorry, Barb," said Jack, penitently.
176 HOME FROM COLLEGE
"I exaggerated about the coffee, — it's not
muddy, only riley. You must n't get so fussed
up about things that are said in fun. You
always used to be able to take a joke. As for
the grass, I '11 hie me hence at once. It needs
a cutting as badly as Gassy's hair."
In spite of herself, Barbara smiled at the
comparison. " Poor Cecilia," she sighed. " I
don't know what on earth to do with that
hair of hers. It is so stiff and rebellious
that it won't lie smooth, and yet so thin and
straight that it won't fluff out, like other
children's. I want her to have it cut, but she
objects, and pins her faith to that row of curl-
papers that makes her look like a Circassian
Lady. It is such an ugly shade of red, too. If
the child only knew how she looked — "
" She 'd never have another happy moment,"
interrupted Jack, pushing back his coffee-cup.
" Well, to work, to work 1 My, it looks hot
out there in the sunshine ! "
An hour later, Barbara raised a flushed face
from the ironing-board to greet the Vegetable
Man. The Vegetable Man was fat and red,
"WITHOUT" 177
and wheezed as he walked. He was an old
patient of the doctor's, and his bi-weekly trips
to the Grafton house were partially of a social
nature. His face wore the blank expression of
a sheet of sticky fly-paper, and he was equally
hard to get rid of. He sat down on one of
the kitchen chairs and fanned himself with his
hat
" This is a scorcher ! " he remarked.
No one appreciated the truth of this state-
ment more strongly than Barbara. But she
feared the result of an enthusiastic response
to the Vegetable Man. " Yes," she assented.
"It is."
"Ninety-three, accordin' to the official
thermometer on the weather bureau's porch.
My thermometer 's three degrees higher, an'
when I'm out in the sun, I believe mine's
right Even the guv'ment 's likely to make
mistakes on a day like this."
Barbara nodded.
" Want any vegetables this morning ? "
" No, I have already ordered my meals
to-day."
178 HOME FROM COLLEGE
"Got some nice corn out there in my
wagon. An' some prime cauliflower."
" I don't want either, to-day."
" All right ; only you know you save money
by buyin' from me instead of the grocery-
store. Your ma would tell you that, if she wuz
here. How is your ma ? "
" Getting better, slowly."
" That 's good ; give her my respects when
you write. Leander Hopkins's respects, an1
hopes you will soon be in your accustomed
health again. How are you gettin' on while
she's gone? Are you just helpin' in the
kitchen, or are you without ? "
"Without?"
" Yes, without."
" I don't understand what you mean, Mr.
Hopkins."
" Why, without a gurrl — a kitchen gurrl."
"We have no cook at present. Do you
know where I can get one ? "
" No, I can't say as I do. Gurrls are pretty
scarce in kitchens, nowadays, though there
seems to be plenty of them in parlors. Maybe
"WITHOUT" 179
my Libbie would come in and help you out,
though she ain't never worked out, regular."
" Oh, would she ? " exclaimed Barbara.
" Can't say fer sure. I'll ast her when I go
home. She 's got steady company, now, — he 's
a brakeman on the Southern Limited, — an* he
always gits back fer Sunday night. I dunno
as she'd like to engage herself fer Sunday
nights. But I '11 ast her. You ain't got that
waist sprinkled enough ; it 's too dry to iron
well."
Barbara only thumped her iron a little
harder.
" Don't like to be told, do ye ? Guess you
must be a little like my wife, — set in your
ways. I know a good deal about ironin' ;
seen the women-folks do it fer thirty years."
"You must have had a good deal of time
to sit and watch."
" Wal, no, not so much as you might think ;
they 's a good deal of work on my place. I 've
been sickly, though, a good bit of my life,
an' had to sit by an' let others do it. I know,
Miss Barb'ry, that I We got the reputation of
180 HOME FROM COLLEGE
bein' lazy, but it ain't true : I ain't lazy ; I don't
mind workin', but I don't like to have to work.
That 's what I like about vegetablin' : I can
rest a little as I go along."
" You are fortunate 1"
There was a pause as the stubborn iron
squeaked its way over the half-dry linen.
"Wal, I guess I must be goin'. You
would n't like no egg-plant, would ye ? "
" No, I think not."
" Shell I bring in a little pie-plant before I
go? Ye might change your mind if you was
to see it."
" No, I won't trouble you."
" No trouble at all, even if it is a hot day.
You 're sure you don't want it? "
"Yes, I 'msure."
"Wal, good-day, then. Don't fergit my
respects to your ma."
Out of the kitchen door waddled Mr.
Hopkins. In at the same door he waddled a
few seconds later. " Hate to int'rupt ye, Miss
Barb'ry," he said mysteriously, "but jest
look a' here."
"WITHOUT" 181
"What is it?" inquired Barbara, suspi-
ciously, fearing she was being enticed to the
vegetable wagon.
"That's what I don't know," said Mr.
Hopkins.
The Vegetable Man led the way around the
walk at the side of the house. He stopped at
the turn, where the syringa and the lilac min-
gled their branches in a leafy roof. The sun
and the leaves made a checkerboard of light
and shade below, and here in the dancing
flecks of sunshine lay a grotesque little figure,
asleep. It was Gassy, but such a sadly changed
Gassy! Reckless hands and a pair of scissors
had worked havoc with the hair that had been
"too stiff to lie smooth, and too thin to fluff/1
Except for the crown of the head, where a few
locks stood erect, like faithful sentinels on a
battle-swept field, the scalp was almost as bare
as a billiard ball. Not content with devastating
her enemy, Gassy had concealed the last sign
of the hated color by covering the remains with
a coating of black. Perspiration and tears
had aided its extension, and two streaks of
182 HOME FROM COLLEGE
the dark fluid had found their way down her
cheeks. There were traces of recent crying-
about the closed eyes, and a damp handker-
chief was tightly clutched in one of the thin
little hands.
Barbara dismissed the Vegetable Man with a
few whispered words of explanation, walking
with him to the gate to insure his departure.
Then she returned to the syringa-bush, and
took the shorn little head in her lap. Gassy
started, and sat erect For a moment she looked
bewildered; then she remembered, and her
proud litde voice said defiantly: —
"I guess I won't look like a Circassian
Lady, now!"
■ Barbara hesitated ; words seemed so futile,
and any explanation was impossible. Then she
did the very best thing, under the circum-
stances,— caught the small sister in her arms,
and held her close. Gassy struggled for a sec-
ond, then her thin little body relaxed, and the
hot tears drenched Barbara's shoulder.
" You need n't think I did n't know about
my hair, before!" she said fiercely, between
SUCH A SADLY CHANGED GASSY
"WITHOUT" 183
sobs. " I 've always hated it, long before I
heard what you and Jack said. But I 've got
it fixed now. It ain't stiff, or thin, or red, any
more!"
Barbara waited until the first shower was
over. "How did you do it, dear?" she asked,
at last.
"Manicure scissors and liquid blacking,"
said Gassy, with a fresh storm of sobs. " I
don't care if I do look awful ! I looked just as
bad before. Jack said I 'd never have another
happy moment if I knew how I looked. And
I do. I'm the ugliest girl in Auburn, — the
very homeliest 1 "
Barbara's quick thoughts flew to the sani-
tarium at Chariton. Was it possible that tra-
gedies like this were of common occurrence
in her mother's life ? It was only a child's tra-
gedy, but it was a very real one; and the
tenderest wisdom and the wisest tenderness
were needed to dispel it. Her mind went back
to the sweet lips and the loving arms that
had soothed so many of her own baby griefs.
Housekeeping had been such a small part of
184 HOME FROM COLLEGE
her mother's life; was she, Barbara, capable
of being a substitute in a case like this?
" I 'm sorry you heard what we said," she
replied, tenderly stroking the sticky head. " Of
course you know that we always exaggerate
when we joke, — Jack and I, — and we said
what we did in fun. Your hair isn't as pretty
now as it will be when you get a little older ;
then it will turn dark, — red hair always does,
— and you may have real auburn, which is
the prettiest shade in the world."
" It is n't just my hair, — it 's all of me,"
sobbed Gassy. " I 'm so dang homely 1 "
Barbara laughed, a merry, hearty laugh,
that carried more comfort than a million words
to the aching litde heart "You blessed
chicken 1 You 're not so homely."
"But I want to be pretty like you; not
skinny, and awkward, and tight little pig-tails
of hair ! I 'd just love to shake curls out of
my neck, the way the other girls do."
" Well, not everybody can have curly hair ;
I 'm not that lucky, either. But I was thinner
than you when I was your age, and far more
"WITHOUT" 185
awkward. You'll grow fatter in a year or two.
And in the meantime, dear, be glad of the
pretty things about yourself, — your clear,
wide-open eyes, your dainty little ears, your
high-arched instep. You have a very sweet
mouth, too, when you are happy."
Gassy snuggled a shade closer to her sister.
" I like you, Barbara," she said, her proud
little voice strangely softened.
" I know you do, dear. And I love you> so
much that I want you to like yourself. Don't
think about how you look; you're always
pretty when you're merry. Let's go in and
shampoo that head of yours. You won't mind
it short during this hot weather, and it will
probably grow in thicker and darker because
of this cutting."
The half-ironed waist had dried when they
returned to the house, and Barbara, as she re-
sprinkled the garment and laid it back in the
ironing basket, was reminded of her frequent
admonitions to her mother about " systema-
tizing the housework." " A mother is a com-
posite of cook, laundress, seamstress, waitress,
186 HOME FROM COLLEGE
nurse, and kindergartner," she said to herselt
44 And yet that is n't what keeps her busiest ;
it 's the unforeseen happenings, and the inter-
ruptions, that eat up the time. I don't wonder
she never finished her work. What next,
I'd like to know?"
Her wish was soon gratified by the appear-
ance of Jack at the door. " Gee whiz ! but this
day is a scorcher/' said the boy, mopping his
forehead with his handkerchief, as he threw
himself upon the lounge in the next room.
" It is ninety in the shade in the yard, — that
is, it would be if there was any shade to get
under. If I ever said anything derogatory unto
the snow-shovel, I take it all back. Here 's a
letter, Barb ; mail-man left it"
Barbara, reaching for the envelope, stum-
bled over the prostrate form of David, who
lay on his stomach on the floor, reading his
well-worn copy of the " Greek Heroes."
" Goodness, David, do get out of the way !
There is n't room to step in this house when
you lie on the floor. And please don't read
aloud until I finish this letter." She tore open
"WITHOUT" 187
the envelope, and her eyes eagerly ran over the
words, as her mind hungrily took them up : —
Vassar College, August 6, 1907.
My dear Miss Grafton, — It gives us much
pleasure to notify you that the Eastman Scholarship
will fall into your hands this year. Miss Culver, who
ranked slightly above you in the competitive exami-
nation, writes us that circumstances make it impos-
sible for her to enjoy its advantages. You, as second
in rank of scholarship, fall heir to her place and her
honors.
We heartily congratulate you upon the attainment
of what you so richly deserve, and beg that you will
notify us of your acceptance this week. It is so late in
the season now that an immediate decision is neces-
sary.
Cordially yours,
Eastman Scholarship Committee,
E. C. Bedford, Chairman.
Jack, glancing up from the lounge, caught
a glimpse of Barbara's face, " What 's the mat-
ter? Is mother worse ? " he demanded, sitting
bolt upright on the sofa.
"No, — oh, no. It's just a letter from col-
lege," said Barbara. She got up from her
188 HOME FROM COLLEGE
chair suddenly, and made her way back to
the kitchen.
" If you 're through with it, may I read aloud
now ? " called David ; but his sister did not
hear him. She stepped inside the pantry and
sat down on a tin cracker-box to think it
over.
The Eastman Scholarship! The highest
honor which Vassar had to offer, and which
carried with it a year of post-graduate study,
had been the ambition of Barbara's life. No-
body but herself could dream what that letter
meant to her. Nobody but herself ever sus-
pected how bitter the disappointment had
been the spring before, when Miss Culver,
who was less brilliant, but more of a student
than Barbara, had taken the scholarship al-
most out of her hands. Every one in college
had expected her to win it, and though she
had been outwardly dubious about her pros-
pects, she had been inwardly self-confident
It had taken courage to offer congratulations
to Miss Culver, on that dreadful day when the
decision had been announced. Everybody —
"WITHOUT" 189
that is, everybody but the faculty — knew
that it belonged, by right, to her. She had
made light of her defeat at home, — she had
never dared think much about it, herself, —
and nobody had suspected how deep a tragedy
it was.
And now the chance had come, now> when
everything in the world was upside down;
when a sick mother and a forlorn household
needed her; when an empty kitchen called
her; and when a pair of hands, awkward
though they were, meant as much to her fam-
ily as a brilliant brain meant to her college.
Barbara closed her eyes, and tried to think.
David, in the next room, had taken up his
reading again, at the Isle of the Sirens : —
" And all things stayed around and listened ; the gulls
sat in white lines along the rocks ; on the beach great
seals lay basking and kept time with lazy heads ; while
silver shoals of fish came up to hearken, and whis-
pered as they broke the shining calm. The wind over-
head hushed his whistling as he shepherded his clouds
toward the west ; and the clouds stood in mid-blue,
and listened dreaming, like a flock of golden sheep.
igo HOME FROM COLLEGE
" And as the heroes listened, the oars fell from their
hands and their heads drooped on their breasts, and
they closed their heavy eyes ; and they dreamed of
bright, still gardens, and of slumbers under mur-
muring pines, till all of their toil seemed foolishness,
and they thought of their renown no more."
" I We been asleep," thought Barbara, bit-
terly, " asleep and dreaming."
" Then Medea clapped her hands together, and
cried, ' Sing louder, Orpheus ; sing a bolder strain ;
wake up these hapless sluggards, or none of them
will see the land of Hellas more.'
"Then Orpheus lifted his harp, and crashed his
cunning hand across the strings, and his music and
his voice rang like a trumpet through the still evening
air : into the air it rushed like thunder, till the rocks
rang, and the sea, and into their souls it rushed like
wine, till all hearts beat fast within their breasts."
"Every dream I had at college — every
hope, every aspiration — has gone," inter-
rupted Barbara's thoughts. "Surely I left
school with plenty of ambition. But here I
am, a drudge of a housekeeper, and a poor
one at that 1 I can't even cook a meal or iron
K All KARA SANK DOWN WEARILY
"WITHOUT" 191
a waist And I have n't the chance to do any-
thing else, with mother sick. Oh, I would like
to! I would, I would! Because this is my
last opportunity. If I don't take this, / shall
never, never, see the land of Hellas more.,,
David lost his place in the story. But the
new page he turned was just as sweet to him,
and he went on reading in his child's voice,
made hoarse by hay fever, and yet sweet with
love of the words : —
" And a dream came to <A£etes, and filled his heart
with fear. He thought he saw a shining star which
fell into his daughter's lap ; and that Medea his daugh-
ter took it gladly, and carried it to the river-side and
cast it in, and there the whirling river bore it down,
and out into the Euxine Sea."
It was nine o'clock that evening before the
last dish was washed, David's throat-wash
prepared, Gassy's head anointed, and a letter
written. After these things were done, Barbara
went out to the mail-box. She posted her letter,
and came back through the moonlight that
seemed to heat the breathless night. Mos-
quitoes hummed about the porch, a cricket
192 HOME FROM COLLEGE
creaked in the grass, and the voices of innum-
erable locusts nicked the silence of the even-
ing. The house was dark and lonely, and still.
Barbara sank down on the porch, wearily, and
laid her head against the railing.
" I We cast in my star,,, she said to herself.
The homely words of the Vegetable Man
came back to her with new meaning.
" Yes, it 's true, I am without," she added ;
" that 's just the word for it ! "
She put both hands before her eyes, and
burst into tears.
CHAPTER X
THE VEGETABLE MAN'S DAUGHTER
Chariton Sanitarium, August 23, 1907.
Dear little Daughter, — You don't know how
nice it is to be able to write a letter all by one's self.
Dictating a letter to your home people is like eating
by proxy.
I am getting better every day. Am sleeping with-
out opiates, and am actually hungry for my meals.
Those trying periods of faintness appear far less
often, and my temperature is so normal that I am
losing prestige with the nurses. It won't be long now
until I shall be home again.
I feel guilty every minute I stay away. Those
cheery letters of yours tell only the funny side of
housekeeping, but I know that there is another side,
too, and that inexperience and hot weather and hard
work are a serious combination. It is too big a load
for one pair of shoulders. I was sorry to hear that
the Duchess had gone ; she promised so well that I
felt relieved about my motherless children and my
wifeless husband. I hope you will be able to get Mr.
194 HOME FROM COLLEGE
Hopkins's daughter. If not, you had better go to the
boarding-house for dinner and supper during the hot
weather.
How is David ? I think of him so often these tor-
rid days. If his hay fever is bad, he ought to be sent
nearer the lake. Watch him carefully, dear, won't
you?
There is little for me to write you. No news is sani-
tarium news, and I see no one but my doctor and
nurse and a few people whose illness is the most in-
teresting thing about them. I live on your letters, —
the dear, funny letters that you must steal time from
recreation to write. I read scraps of them to the doc-
tor and a few friends I have made here, and they
never fail to ask me daily if I have " heard from the
clever daughter." The cleverness I knew all about,
long ago, but I am finding out new things every day
about the sweetness and usefulness of that same
daughter. Try to save yourself all you can, dearie.
Why, oh, why, when you were choosing, did n't you
select a mother that did n't " prostrate " ?
Kiss the babes for me, and tell your father that I
can't and won't stay away much longer. Much love
from Mother.
Barbara read the letter aloud to Gassy on
one of the hottest of the August days. Then
VEGETABLE MAN'S DAUGHTER 195
she drew the little sister into her arms and
kissed her, — a long-drawn kiss in which was
expressed relief and joy and gratitude. Gassy
understood, and nestled close with a happy
little croon.
" Won't it be nice to have her back, Bar-
bara?" she whispered. "It's been awful
lonesome without her ! If it had n't been
for you, I could n't have stood it" Then,
ashamed of her unwonted show of affection,
she drew herself out of her sister's lap, say-
ing in her stiff little voice, which had been
heard less frequently of late, "It's too hot
to kiss!"
" There 's another letter, too," said Barbara ;
" I don't know whether I 'd better open it or
not. It 's addressed to mother, but I think it
is from Aunt Sarah."
Gassy made a grimace. "Better open it,
then. It won't hold any good news."
"I'm afraid I must; Aunt Sarah doesn't
know that mother is away from home. I hope
it is n't descriptive of any more family broils.
If it is, I shan't forward it."
196 HOME FROM COLLEGE
" Prob'ly she 's going to make us a visit,"
said Gassy.
A horrible foreboding of what Gassy*s pre-
diction would mean swept over Barbara. It
was succeeded by a still more horrible sensa-
tion as she read the letter : —
My dear Niece, — I am about to start for the shore
on my annual trip, and intend to stop and see you on
the way. I leave here Thursday, and expect to arrive
in Auburn some time Friday. I intended to let you
know before, but I have been very busy attending
to my wardrobe, and have neglected less important
things. You never make much fuss over me when I
come, so I knew I could break the monotony of the
long trip east without inconveniencing you.
Your last letter said you were not very well. Of
course I regret to hear that, but you cannot expect
me to express sympathy for what is obviously your
own fault. New Thought stands ready to help you,
and until you are willing to accept its teachings,
you cannot hope to have peace of either mind or
body. I shall do my best to convince you of this
when I come.
I understand that Barbara is with you. I am anxious
to see that college life, of which I never approved,
VEGETABLE MAN'S DAUGHTER 197
has improved her. I shall telegraph you later when
to meet me.
Your affectionate aunt,
Sarah T. Bossall.
P. S. — I neglected to say that I shall bring Ed-
ward's boys with me.
Barbara laid down the sheet of paper, and
sat looking at it with troubled eyes.
" What 's the matter ? " asked Gassy.
" She *s coming, to-morrow ! " groaned Bar-
bara ; " and she 's going to bring those awful
grandchildren of hers. That means that one
of us will have to give up a room, and sleep
in the attic. And to-morrow is sweeping-day,
and not a thing baked in the house, and father
away, and David half-sick, and Only me to
do the cooking for nine people! And Mrs.
Clemens can't take us to board ; father asked
her before he left."
Gassy looked equally disconsolate. "I just
hate those Bossall boys," she said ; " they
fight all the time, and grab the best pieces,
and call you red-head, and brag about living
in the city. Archie 's the biggest cry-baby I
198 HOME FROM COLLEGE
ever saw, and Nelson ' s an awful liar, and that
Freddy has n't even sense enough to keep his
stockings up ; they 're always in rolls about
his ankles.''
Barbara listened unhearingly. " Aunt Sarah
always expects to be ' entertained.' And she 's
so particular that I just dread to have her
come inside the house. During this hot
weather I 've been letting things go a little,
and I know she '11 comment on the way they
look. It does n't seem as though I could
do any more work than I have been doing I
What shall I do, Gassy? "
" We might go out and see the Vegetable
Man's daughter," suggested Gassy, flattered
at being taken into consultation.
" I think that 's the only thing left," agreed
Barbara ; " ask Sam to harness Maud S., and
I '11 put on my hat while you 're gone. You
may go with me, if you want to."
Grassy looked wistful. " I s'pose if I stayed,
I could pare the potatoes for you," she said
hesitatingly.
" You dear little chicken, you," said Bar-
VEGETABLE MAN'S DAUGHTER 199
bara. " Never mind the potatoes ; we can fix
them together when we come back. I *d rather
have you with me, now."
Maud S. jogged slowly along the road that
led to the Vegetable Man's. It was a winding
road that twisted its way uphill like a yellow
shaving curl. Midsummer lay heavy on the
farm-lands stretching away on either side.
The corn-fields gleamed yellow in the sun-
shine, the locusts filled the air with their in-
cessant drone, and goldenrod and wild asters,
covered with a veil of dust, flaunted in every
corner of the rail-fences. Barbara loved those
rail-fences, built in the days when time was
the farmer's chief asset, and now rapidly giv-
ing way to the ugly, prosaic barbed-wire that
is so symbolic of the present age of com-
mercialism. Something of this thought she
expressed to Gassy.
" It keeps the cows out of the corn, though,"
was the small sister's response.
Barbara mused over the words as she urged
on Maud S. They, too, were characteristic of
this Western country, the new world that was
200 HOME FROM COLLEGE
so busy at money-making that it had no time
to think of beauty ; the world that lived alone
to keep the cows out of the corn. She loved
the long, rich stretches of rolling prairie lands ;
she was proud of the miles of waving yellow
corn-fields; at college she had felt a tender
sort of thrill every time she claimed owner-
ship with the middle West But planted in
that same prairie land, like a stalk of corn,
herself, her beauty-loving soul revolted at its
materialism, and pride in its productiveness
seemed a sort of vulgar greed. The beautiful
middle West was peopled by men with souls
so dead, that to keep the cows out of the corn
was their ambition in life. Live-stock and
grain bounded their existence on four sides.
Was it possible that people could grow so
deaf to the voice of loveliness that a midsum-
mer day could fail to speak of beauty to them?
The strident clatter of a harvesting-machine
seemed to assent to the question.
At the top of the hill, Maud S. stopped for
a rest And looking down from the summit,
Barbara was answered. Into the hazy, blue
VEGETABLE MAN'S DAUGHTER 201
distance stretched the corn-fields, so far away
that the tasseled tops became but an indistinct,
waving sea. Eyes could not see where the
sea ended and the hills began ; the two met,
blended, melted into each other ; every sign
of industry was a part of the wonderful land-
scape, and utilitarianism became beauty itself.
At the third curl of the shaving stood the
Vegetable Man's large red barn. Back of it,
and hidden from the road, stood his small
white house.
" I should think his wife would rather live in
the stable," said Gassy, as the two girls went
up the narrow walk with the grass growing
untidily through the broken planks.
Leander Hopkins himself answered their
knock at the door, and to him Barbara ex-
plained her errand.
" Wal, I dunno. She 's got steady company
now, and her mind seems to be set on him.
She 'd like to do it fer yer ma, though, I 'm
sure. Ye fd best ast her."
He led the way through an uncarpeted hall
into the kitchen, where a tired-faced woman
202 HOME FROM COLLEGE
and a slatternly girl were at work. Barbara
cast a quick look at the latter, and her heart
sank. The Vegetable Man's daughter was
thirty-odd years old. She was thin and sallow
and stupid-looking. Her eyes were crossed,
and a pair of large glasses, apparently worn
to hide the defect, succeeded only in making
it more prominent She listened to Barbara's
recital with little show of interest
" I dunno," she said finally, " as there 's any
need I should work out"
Again Barbara offered inducements.
"Do you let your girls have company?"
asked the Vegetable Man's daughter, with a
simper.
"Oh, yes, certainly," answered Barbara.
" Steady company, I mean," said the girl.
"If they prefer that kind," said Barbara,
smiling in spite of herself.
" And all their evenings ? "
" Yes," replied Barbara.
"And Sunday afternoons to supper?"
Barbara hesitated. "Yes," she agreed,
finally.
VEGETABLE MAN'S DAUGHTER 203
"Well, I dunno," said the girl. The tired-
faced woman put in a word : —
"You might go and help her out a bit,
Libbie. Then you could buy those white shoes
you 've been wanting."
"Well, maybe," assented the girl. "When
do you want me?"
" Right now," said Barbara.
Ten minutes later, Mr. Hopkins accompa-
nied the three girls to the gate, lending his
presence while Barbara untied the horse and
cramped the buggy. " Good-by, Libbie," he
said; "write us frequent, and don't work too
hard. Give my regards to yer pa, Miss Bar-
b'ry. I ain't never forgot the time he pulled
me out of noomonia. There ain't nothing too
big f er me to do fer him ; tell him to come
out some time, and pick gooseberries."
Great- Aunt Sarah reached Auburn the next
day. No telegram had heralded the hour of
her coming, and consequently there was no
one at the station to meet her on arrival. At
noon on Friday, while Barbara was convincing
204 HOME FROM COLLEGE
the Vegetable Man's daughter that steak
should be broiled instead of fried, a carriage
rolled up to the door. Peanuts Barker, still in
Banker Willowby's top hat, deposited a trunk
on the front walk, and a stout lady, with two
methodical puffs of shiny black hair in under
her bonnet, and three small boys dismounted.
At the sound of the wheels there was a gen-
eral scattering of the clan. Gassy, whose hatred
for Aunt Sarah was general, and for the boys
specific, retired to the coal-cellar, David hur-
ried to put his dear books out of reach of
marauding hands, and Jack meanly aban-
doned the scene of action for an upstairs win-
dow. Barbara and the Kid were the only
members of the family to greet the guests.
"How do you do, my dears?" said Aunt
Sarah, majestically. " I was surprised to find
no one at the station when I arrived. I am not
accustomed to the care of my own baggage.
Barbara, how sallow you are ! Don't set my
trunk down there, sir; my fee to you includes
payment for carrying it upstairs. Archie, let
the dressing-case alone; I don't want to have
VEGETABLE MAN'S DAUGHTER 205
to speak to you about it again I I suppose
I am to have the east room, as usual. I hope
the morning light won't wake me up at day-
break."
"The same old Great Sahara!" whispered
Jack, appearing in the hall to shoulder the
luggage. " Age cannot wither, or custom stale
her infinite arrive-ity. If I should hear that
voice in the heart of the Hartz Mountains, I
should say, 'T is she ! 'T is she ! "
It was true that the three years that had
passed since aunt and niece had met had done
little to change Aunt Sarah. At the table that
noon, Barbara, who had sacrificed her vege-
tarian theories to the comfort of her visitors,
hospitably inquired about the result: —
"How is your steak, Aunt Sarah?"
Mrs. Bossall plied her knife vigorously for
a moment, then replied to her niece's question
with a single word : —
"Tough!"
Barbara's housekeeping, Jack's idleness,
Gassy's disposition, David's dreaminess, and
the Kid's table-manners were all criticised
206 HOME FROM COLLEGE
with impartiality. Even the Vegetable Man's
daughter was not spared.
"If that girl were working for me, she
wouldn't sit up with her young man until half-
past ten o'clock," she announced, on the sec-
ond morning after her arrival.
She commented on the hardness of her bed,
the crack in her window, the quality of her
food ; Barbara's theories, the doctor's weakness
for charity cases, the lack of economy in the
household, and the extravagance of sanita-
rium life, all came in for her condemnation.
Barbara's temper was held by a single airy
thread, that threatened daily to snap, and was
kept in place only by exertion of much will-
power, and the comforting thought that Aunt
Sarah's visit could not last forever.
"Edward's children" had inherited some of
the most striking of their grandmother's char-
acteristics. Moreover, added to her aggressive-
ness and her domineering qualities, they pos-
sessed a fertility of resource and an ingenuity
for mischief that filled the Kid with envy, Bar-
bara with horror, and Jack with amusement
VEGETABLE MAN'S DAUGHTER 207
" They have imbibed some of their beloved
grandmother's theories," said Jack to Barbara,
on the third day of the visit. " Talk about the
' New Thought ' ! Those kids have more new
and original thoughts in ten seconds than her
whole sect has in ten years. What idea do
you suppose they conceived this morning? I
came up the back walk in time to see a bundle
of white linen dangling in the air at the barn
window. Those little fiends were up in the loft
working the hay pulley, and hanging from
the rope below was the youngest Wemott
baby, the hook of the rope caught through
the band of its little apron. There was only
a button between that infant and eternity
when I rescued it/'
" They are the worst children I ever saw,"
said Barbara. " Cecilia is hard to manage, but
she is as nothing compared with the Bossall
boys. You can't appeal to their better natures,
for there is nothing there to appeal to. And
as for punishing them, I don't believe that they
are afraid of anything in this whole world."
" Except Gassy," suggested Jack.
208 HOME FROM COLLEGE
" Yes, they seem to hold her in wholesome
respect I can't understand the cause of their
consideration for her, unless it is fear. Cecilia
is n't mighty in the flesh, but her tongue is a
power."
The reason for this respect came to light
the next day. It was fear : but fear of some-
thing besides Gassy's tongue. Before day-
light, Aunt Sarah creaked her way up the
attic stairs to the little, hot room in which
Barbara had slept since the arrival of the
guests. Aunt Sarah was addicted to black
silk nightgowns, and the long, dark robe, a
lighted candle, and curling-pins, rolled so
tighdy that they lifted her eyebrows, gave her
a decidedly Lady Macbethian appearance.
" Are you awake, Barbara ? " she inquired,
in an angry stage whisper.
By that time Barbara could truthfully an-
swer that she was. " What is it? " she asked.
" I *m sorry to disturb you," said Aunt
Sarah, in a voice that betokened anything but
regret " But I am in such a state of mind that
VEGETABLE MAN'S DAUGHTER 209
even New Thought fails to calm me. I was
never so insulted in my life as by the treat-
ment that has been accorded me and mine
while in my own niece's home."
" What do you mean, Aunt Sarah ? " cried
Barbara, now thoroughly aroused.
"I mean just this : Cecilia has been accord-
ing Edward's children a system of torture
that has nearly robbed them of their sanity."
Even in her worry and bewilderment, a
wicked thought, reflecting upon the present
mental condition of Edward's children flashed
through Barbara's mind. But she checked the
desire to give utterance to it
Aunt Sarah set down the candle, and faced
Barbara severely. " I was aroused from sleep
a few moments ago by a noise in the next
room," she said. " It sounded like a scream
from Archie, and I sat up in bed and listened.
I heard a deep voice in the children's room,
saying, 'I am the Holy Ghost,' and other
irreverent things which I cannot, at this mo-
ment, recall. I knew that no burglar would stop
for that announcement, so I quietfy opened the
210 HOME FROM COLLEGE
door and looked in. A figure in a sheet was
standing between the two beds, with arms
outstretched over the two boys."
" What I " exclaimed Barbara.
" It was Cecilia, of course," continued Aunt
Sarah. " The dear litde lads were speechless
with fright and horror, and that bad child was
claiming to be the Holy Ghost, and threaten-
ing all sorts of terrible things to them if they
tore David's books again. I sent her back to
bed at once, and tried to reassure the boys,
but they were in a sad state of terror. They
tell me that this has gone on from night to
night They know, of course, that it is Cecilia,
but they are timid by nature, and they have
been in a pitiable frame of mind. I have no-
ticed, ever since our arrival, that they have
been slightly unmanageable, and this explains
it all ; New Thought cannot work against a
supernatural fear. Now, the question is, what
are you going to do with Gassy?"
Wicked Barbara suppressed a chuckle as
she debated. "Well, I think I 41 let her sleep
till morning, Aunt Sarah," she said aloud,
VEGETABLE MAN'S DAUGHTER 211
soberly. " Then I '11 see what I can do with
her. It was very wrong of her, of course,
and I 'm sorry that you and the boys have
been put to so much distress. It is n't like
Cecilia to be cruel."
" It is exactly what I should expect of her,"
was the sharp reply. " Cecilia I like the least
of any of my niece's children. She is naturally
an inhuman sort of child, without the slightest
trace of affection for any one ; and then she
has always been allowed to have her own way,
until she is most unmanageable. Elizabeth
and your father have spoiled all of their chil-
dren, but the result is most obvious in Cecilia.
She ought to be severely dealt with for a trick
of this kind. Reverence, if not simple human-
ity, should have deterred her. But none of
you children seem to have any reverence for
anything. I think I shall speak to Cecilia,
myself, this morning."
" Oh, please don't, Aunt Sarah," exclaimed
Barbara, impulsively. "You know how sen-
sitive Cecilia is, and how hard to handle 1
I think that if I talk to her first, I can make
212 HOME FROM COLLEGE
her sorry for frightening the boys. But she
does n't li— "
Aunt Sarah took up her candle with as
much dignity as it is possible to assume in curl-
ing-pins. " I understand that Cecilia does n't
like me," she said stiffly, "and I assure you
that the feeling is mutual. I shall not speak
to her, of course, if you prefer that I shall hold
no communication with her. But I shall write
your mother a full account of the whole affair
as soon as I leave, which will be this morning,
if possible. I must say, Barbara, that I never
expected that you would condone wrong-
doing, even in your own household. I shall
telephone for an expressman to take my trunk
to the station at ten this morning. If there was
ever a home and a family where New Thought
is needed, this is the one ! "
Aunt Sarah was as good as her word. Dur-
ing the entire breakfast hour, she deigned not
so much as a glance at her guilty great-niece.
Upon her departure, she ostentatiously kissed
every other member of the family, including
VEGETABLE MAN'S DAUGHTER 213
Jack, who presented a cheek gingerly for the
salute. Barbara accompanied her to the sta-
tion, but she was not to be mollified, and
the farewell was enlivened only by Edward's
boys, whose parting act was to open a coop
of chickens in the Auburn baggage-room, and
give the fowls their freedom. Barbara, as well
as the station-master, heaved a sigh of relief
as her relatives boarded the train.
Upon her return to the disorderly home,
the big sister sought out the little one. It was
hard to find fault with the punishment that had
been meted out to Edward's boys, but it must
be done. Barbara took the small girl on her lap.
"Why did you doit, Chicken?" she asked.
Gassy's lips set in a decided line. " Because
they deserved it," she said. " I ain't one bit
sorry, Barbara Grafton, not one single bit I
Those are the meanest, sneakiest boys that
ever lived ! They did n't dare torment Jack, —
he was too big ; they were afraid of me because
I could beat them running. So they took it
all out on David and the Kid, 'specially David.
He ain't strong enough to fight, and, besides,
214 HOME FROM COLLEGE
he 's too gentle ; and they knew jt, and took
advantage of it all the time. First they used
to hit him, and tease him, but he 'd never an-
swer back, — just look at them kind of sad
and slow, like Mary, Queen of Scots, on the
scaffold. And that spoiled all their fun ; the
scratch-back kind are the only ones who are
ever really teased, you know."
Barbara put this bit of philosophy away for
future reference.
"But after awhile," the child continued,
"they found out that it hurt him lots worse
to meddle with his books, so they did that,
just to worry him. You know how he loves
that King Arthur book of his ! Yesterday they
cut out every single picture in it with their
jackknives, — just hacked it all up I You can't
hurt those boys, — they're too tough; but
they 're awful 'fraid-cats, and you can scare
'em easy. So I just put on a sheet, and went
in and warned 'em that they das n't touch
David's books again. He cries every time
they do, and that makes his hay fever worse."
"But, dear," Barbara said quiedy, "it
VEGETABLE MAN'S DAUGHTER 215
was n't nice to do it They were in your own
house, you know — "
" We did n't invite them," interrupted
Gassy.
" And, besides, you must never scare people.
It 's a very dangerous thing to do. If they had
been frightened into brain fever, you would
never forgive yourself. And one thing more,
dear, I don't like your calling yourself the
Holy Ghost."
"That was because my sheet was torn.
The hole-y ghost, you know."
" I know, but it is n't a reverent thing to
say."
" But, Barbara, it does n't seem wicked to
me to say that I never could even imagine
the Holy Ghost It just seems like words, and
nothing else. Every time I go to church they
talk about the Holy Ghost, and the Spirit,
and the Life Infinite, and I can't understand
'em. Even Jehovah sounds awful big and far
off. But when they say Jesus, — Baby Jesus,
I mean, or Little Boy Jesus, or Man Jesus, —
that is easy and sweet I always like best to
216 HOME FROM COLLEGE
think of Him that way ; not like a God, so far
off, and with so many things to manage, that
it 's hard to believe that He cares, but like
a man, that made mistakes, and had to try
over again."
" Yes," said Barbara, understandingly.
" I like to think," went on Gassy, "that He
did just the same things that we do, and loved
the same things, and wanted the same things.
It wouldn't help me any to have Him be glad
to die and go up in a chariot of fire, with
people hollering, like Elijah did. But it does
help me to know that He wanted to live, just
like I do, and cried about leaving everything,
at first, and then was big and brave enough
to stand it You know I wouldn't be irrev-
erent about Him, Barbara!"
" No, and it would hurt you to have any one
else irreverent about Him. And that is why I
don't like to have you say what you did about
the Holy Ghost ; you may hurt some one else."
"Well, I won't do it again; that is, I won't
be irreverent," promised Gassy. " But about
scaring them, Barbara Grafton, you must n't
VEGETABLE MAN'S DAUGHTER 217
try to make me be sorry about that, for I'd be
telling a lie if I said I was. They deserved it,
and there was n't any other way of making
them let David alone. 1 'm glad I frightened
some of the bad out of them."
And with this Barbara was forced to be
satisfied.
The path was straightened for Barbara after
the departure of her guests. The Vegetable
Man's daughter was incompetent, but she was
good-natured and cheerful. Her shrill soprano
voice rose at all hours of the day in the re-
quest to be waltzed around again, Willie,
around, and around, and around. Her " Steady
Company" made regular calls at the kitchen
every evening that he was off his run, and sat
on the back porch, with his feet on the railing
and his pipe in his mouth, scarcely uttering
a word during the call. The Vegetable Man's
daughter proved to be a fluent conversation-
alist, and judging from the scraps of sound that
floated around to the front porch, now and
then, the evening visits seemed to consist of
218 HOME FROM COLLEGE
monologue, sandwiched in between a kiss of
greeting and one of parting. Promptly at half-
past ten the Steady Company would with-
draw, and the Vegetable Man's daughter would
renew her request to be waltzed around again,
Willie, all the way up the back stairs.
Perhaps it was the thought of her absent
lover that prevented her success as a cook, for
it was certain that the day after one of his
calls the bread was apt to be unsalted, the
napkins forgotten, and the milk left to sour.
But she was strong and willing, patient with
Barbara's theories, and fond of the children.
Something of the old-time comfort returned
to the house, and Barbara found time to min-
gle with the young people of Auburn, and to
enjoy the first youthful companionship she
had had since her return from college. On
some of these occasions she met Susan, who
greeted her with a stiff smile, in which wistful-
ness was scarcely hidden. There was nothing
of regret in Barbara's cool nod. Susan was
not as necessary to her as she was to Susan,
and in the popularity which came to her as
VEGETABLE MAN'S DAUGHTER 219
readily with the young people at home as at
school, she easily forgot the quiet girl on the
outskirts of the jolly crowd.
Gayeties began to thicken upon the ap-
proach of school-days, and Barbara took active
part in all of them. In the relief about her
mother's condition, all serious thoughts took
wing, and Barbara played the butterfly with
light heart " The Infinite of the Ego " lay un-
touched in a pigeon-hole of her desk, and she
felt no inclination to write anything heavier
than the semi- weekly letters that merrily told
the life at home to her mother. The taste of
play-time was very sweet after the hard sum-
mer; and tennis and boating and driving filled
the days of early autumn to the brim.
But the recess was of short duration. Bar-
bara, coming in from an afternoon tea, was
met in the hall by the Vegetable Man's daugh-
ter. "I've something to tell you, Miss Bar-
bara," she said.
"What is it, Libbie? Are we out of eggs?
I remembered, after I had gone, that I had
forgotten to order more."
220 HOME FROM COLLEGE
"No'm, it ain't eggs; it's me. We eloped
this afternoon."
"What!"
" Yes'm; me and my Steady Company. He
got off his run this afternoon, and we thought
we might as well do it now and be done
with it"
"So you 're married?"
"Yes'm; we went to the justice's office.
They said it was the prettiest wedding that
had been there in a month. I wore my white
shoes, and I flush up so when I get excited."
" But how did you elope t Did n't your fam-
ily ever know that you were going to be
married?"
" Oh, yes, they knew that for two months
already, but we did n't say nothing to them
about this. We wanted a piece in the paper
about it, and they always write it up when a
couple elope. So we told the justice we was
running away, and we wanted it wrote up,
and he said he 'd see to it. Besides, we did n't
have time to let 'em know, out home ; we just
decided it ourselves this afternoon."
VEGETABLE MAN'S DAUGHTER 221
" Well, I hope you '11 be happy, Libbie,"
Barbara recovered herself enough to say. " I
suppose this means that I shall lose you ? "
" Yes 'm. I 'm just back for my clothes.
We're going out to his mother's to-night.
She 's got the harvesters at her house this
week, and will want me to come out and help
her cook for them. After that,we 're going to
housekeeping in town."
" Are n't you going to have any wedding-
trip?"
" We had it already. We took the trolley-car
out to the cemetery after the wedding, and set
there two good hours, till it was time to come
in and get supper. I knew you would n't get
home in time. I 'm sorry to leave you this way,
without warning, Miss Barbara, but it can't
be helped. That 's what an elopement is."
Barbara's pretty reception gown was laid
aside for a shirt-waist and skirt and a kitchen
apron. And as she and Gassy " cleared up "
the dishes, the Vegetable Man's daughter
and her Steady Company passed away in a
cloud of romance and tobacco smoke.
CHAPTER XI
REAL TROUBLE
" The lion is the beast to fight,
He leaps along the plain :
And if you run with all your might,
He runs with all his mane.
I 'm glad I 'm not a Hottentot,
But if I were, with outward cal-lum
I 'd either faint upon the spot,
Or hie me up a leafy pal-lum,"
sang Jack, in a clear baritone that made up
in volume what it lacked in quality. " I don't
know but I '11 have to take to the tall timber,
if I don't find my school-books. Barberry,
have you seen anything of my Greek since
the twenty-sixth of last June ? "
"All the school-books are piled on the
rubber-box in the vestibule," said Barbara.
"I suppose your Greek is among them.
Hurry, David ; you '11 have to put on a clean
blouse before you start, and it 's after eight,
REAL TROUBLE 223
David's voice came from the pillows of the
couch, where he had curled himself into a
disconsolate little ball, — " I 'm not going to
school to-day, Barbara."
" Why not ? " asked his sister.
" I 've got a headache, and my shoulders
are tired."
"First symptoms of the nine o'clock dis-
ease," commented Jack ; "David has it every
year."
" I don't think you feel so very bad," said
Barbara. " You 've been so much better lately.
And you '11 have to make up all the lessons
that you miss, you know."
" Wish I did n't have to go to school," said
David, in a petulant voice that was most
unusual with, him ; " I hate it."
" I can't understand why you don't like to
study when you so love to read," remarked
Barbara. " You ought to do much better work
in school ; you 're not a bit stupid at home."
"I have ideas in my head," said David,
plaintively. " But when I get them out, they
are n't ideas."
224 HOME FROM COLLEGE
" You do too much dreaming and too little
studying. I can't pull you away from books
at home, but you don't seem to be able
to concentrate your mind on your school
work."
" Lessons are so unintVesting," said David.
" If I was in history or mythology, now, I 'd like
those ; but I only have reading and 'rithmetic
and language and g'ography. I ' ve read every-
thing in my reader a million times, and every
time we come to a beauteous sentence in our
language lesson we have to chop it up into
old parts of speech. I can't do numbers at all,
and I just hate g'ography ! "
" You like to read it at home."
"Yes, but that's diffrunt I always read
about the people, and the animals, and what 's
in the country, and what the inhabitants do,
and how they live. But at school they make
you tell all the mountain ranges from the
northeast to the southwest of Asia, and the
names are awful hard to learn. They 're just
like eight times seven, and seven times nine :
there does n't seem to be anything to make
REAL TROUBLE 225
you remember them, but there 's a whole lot
of things to make you forget them ! "
" Wait until you get into fractions," said
Gassy. " Then you '11 see ! 'Rithmetic is just
planned to keep you guessing. When I was
beginning addition, I thought that was all
there was to learn, but afterwards I found
that I 'd only learned it so I could do sub-
traction. Everything you find out about just
makes more things for you to study. I wish
I 'd stayed with my mind a blank, — like the
Everett baby."
" Don't worry about that," said Jack, con-
solingly. " You have n't strayed so far from
that condition that you can't find your way
back."
There was a crackle of stiff white apron, a
flash of thin, black legs, and Whiting's Lan-
guage Lessons went sailing through the air,
its pages falling as it struck Jack's head.
"Now see what you've done, Spitfire!"
said Jack.
Two months before, this exhibition of temper
would have been made the subject of a moral
226 HOME FROM COLLEGE
lecture from Barbara. Now she only looked
sober as she bent to help Gassy pick up the
leaves. "Poor book," she said; "you've
given it what Jack deserved. That 's hardly
fair, is it ? Come, Boy, help repair the damage
that you caused. No, David, you need n't
help; I want you to go and get ready for
school."
" Must I ? " pleaded David.
" I think you had better."
The little boy raised himself from the
couch with a long-drawn sigh that Barbara
remembered days afterward. "All right, if
you say so," he said : " I '11 change my waist
now."
The house seemed very still after the chil-
dren had trooped out to swell the procession
of young people headed toward the school.
Barbara reflected with relief that their depar-
ture would lighten her labors. With the Kid
at kindergarten, and the others away from
home, she could count on a tidy house and
an unbroken opportunity for work.
"It doesn't seem very affectionate to be
REAL TROUBLE 227
glad that they are gone," she said to her-
self. " Mother always seemed to be sorry
when our vacation was over. But it is sl re-
lief to have a quiet house, and a chance to
work without a dozen interruptions an hour.
Perhaps, after I get things into running
order, I shall have time to do a little writing
every morning while they are out of the way.
Then — "
The thought of the pile of rejected manu-
scripts lying upstairs in the corner of her desk
stopped her dreams. "I can't even write any
more," she thought bitterly. "This kitchen
drudgery takes the life out of my brain as
well as my body. I must find time to put the
early morning freshness into something be.
sides dishes."
It was with this idea that she carried a
writing-pad and her fountain pen out to the
side porch an hour later. An orderly house
and an undistracted mind seemed to make
conditions favorable for writing, and the
scanty bits of philosophy that had sifted their
way into the gayeties of the past fortnight
228 HOME FROM COLLEGE
began to find utterance in best college rhet-
oric The lust of writing stole over the girl,
and for two hours she wrote steadily, utterly
oblivious to everything.
The sound of the opening of the gate roused
her. It was Jack, coming up the gravel walk
with David in his arms, — an inert little David,
whose arm hung heavily over his brother's,
and whose hand swung limply at the end.
The fountain pen rolled unheeded off the
porch.
" What is it ? " breathed Barbara.
" Where 's father ? " asked Jack.
" Gone to see the Wemott baby. What *s
the matter with David ? "
" I wish I knew," said Jack, hoarsely. " He *s
sick, though. Call father by 'phone, and then
help me to get him to bed. I '11 tell you
about it when you come upstairs."
Barbara's heart stood still, but her feet flew.
" Wemott 's residence," she said at the tele-
phone. " Oh, I don't know the number, Cen-
tral ; hurry, please, do hurry ! "
It seemed hours before the answer came.
REAL TROUBLE 229
"Is Dr. Grafton still there? ... No, don't call
him. . . . Tell him to come home at once."
Even in her excitement she found thought to
add the words that should save him ten min-
utes of worry, — " There has been a hurry call.'9
The limp little body lay stretched out on
David's bed. "I can't find his night-shirt,"
said Jack, in the same hoarse voice. "Where
do you keep it, Barbara? He was taken sick
at school. Bob Needham came running over
to the High Schqol to tell me to come at once,
— that David was acting strangely. By the
time I got there, he was lying just like this
across one of the recitation benches, and his
teacher was trying to make him swallow a
little brandy. She told me that she had noticed
that he was not himself during a recitation ;
he began to talk loudly and rather wildly,
and to insist that his head did ache; that" —
Jack seemed to force out the words — "that
it was tit the nine o'clock disease. She tried
to quiet him, and had just succeeded in get-
ting him to agree to go home, when he top-
pled over on the floor. Don't wait to unfasten
230 HOME FROM COLLEGE
that shoe-string, Barbara; cut it Of course
I brought him right home. Willowby's driver
was just passing the school, and I hailed him.
When will father be here?"
Between the disjointed sentences brother
and sister put the sick child to bed. Then Jack
hurried to call Dr. Curtis by telephone, while
Barbara hovered over the still form until her
father's step was heard on the stair. In the ten
minutes' interval the girl learned what four
years of college had failed to teach, — the
hardest lesson that Time brings to Youth, —
how to wait.
The two physicians arrived almost simulta-
neously. Then Barbara and Jack were sent
downstairs on errands that both felt were man-
ufactured for the occasion. When they came
back, the bedroom door was shut and they
sat down in the hall outside, silent and aloof,
and yet drawn together by the same fear which
struggled at each heart. After what seemed
to be hours, the door opened, and Dr. Curtis
came out. Two white faces questioned his.
"Probably brain fever," said the doctor.
REAL TROUBLE 231
"We hope that it won't be very serious, — if
we 've caught it in time. Jack, you come along
to the drug-store with me. Miss Barbara, you
might go in and see your father now."
But the girl had not waited for his instruc-
tions, to push past him into the bedroom. Dr.
Grafton stood looking down at the little figure
outlined by the bed-clothes. He turned as
Barbara came in, and the girl received no en-
couragement from his face. When he spoke,
however, it was reassuringly. " Come in, Bar-
bara; you can't disturb him now. He's had
some medicine, and he won't rouse for some
tim6. I want to talk with you."
" Is he dangerously sick? "
u We can't tell just how sick he is, but we
won't think about danger yet. His fever is
pretty high. Has he complained about not
feeling well lately?"
" Not until this morning, and then not much.
David never does really complain. He wanted
to stay away from school, though."
" He ought never to have gone," said her
father.
232 HOME FROM COLLEGE
Barbara winced as though she had been
struck. " That was my fault, father ; I told him
that I thought he had better go."
Dr. Grafton did not seem to hear. " I ' ve been
trying to think what is the best thing for us
to do. I don't dare to let your mother know
yet I've sent for a nurse for the boy, but it's
going to make extra care for you to have sick-
ness in the house. I don't know just what
we'll do with the children ; we must try to find
some haven for Cecilia and the Kid. You and
Jack and I must hold the fort Do you think
we can manage it? It may be a long siege."
Barbara's eyes overflowed, but her voice
was steady as she answered her father with a
slang phrase that seemed, somehow, to carry
more assurance with it than college English
would have done, — " Sure thing ! "
"That's all, then. The nurse will be here
in twenty minutes. Try to keep the children
still when they get home from school. I know
that I can depend on you to keep things run-
ning, downstairs."
"Yes, father."
REAL TROUBLE 233
News traveled fast in Auburn, and before
the children had returned from school, two vis-
itors had cleared some of the difficulties from
Barbara's path. The first was Mrs. Willowby,
who stopped at the door to tell Barbara that
Gassy and the Kid were to be provided with
a temporary home. " I am on my way to school
now," she said; "and I'll explain it to them,
and will take them home with me this noon.
If you can get together what clothing they
will need, I'll send Michael over for it this
afternoon. You know what a happiness it will
be to me to do anything for your mother's
children, and I '11 try to mother them enough
to keep them contented. In the mean time,
dear, we are all at your service."
As Mrs. Willowby's carriage left the door,
Susan came hurrying up the walk, a covered
plate in her hand, and her face alive with sym-
pathy. She caught Barbara's face and drew it
down to her own, using the childish name for
her which had been dropped since college
days. " Dear old Bobby," she said. " I ' ve just
heard about it."
234 HOME FROM COLLEGE
Barbara's face relaxed and the tears began
to gather.
" I 've come to stay," said Susan, in a prac-
tical voice, which brought more relief than pity
would have done. "That is, to stay as long
as you need me. David may be all right in
a day or two, and then 1 41 only be in the
way. But in the mean time, I 'm going to be
Bridget."
" Oh, no," protested Barbara.
" Oh, yes," mocked Susan. " You '11 have
enough on your hands with all the extra cares,
let alone the cooking. You must save a part
of yourself for David, if he needs you. I don't
expect to do as well as you have been doing,
if Auburn gossip is to be trusted, but I shan't
poison your family during your absence from
the kitchen."
" I can't let you do it," said Barbara. " You
ou§ht not to take so much time away from
home. What would your family do without
you?"
"I have them trained so that they could
get along without me for a year," answered
REAL TROUBLE 235
Susan. " Brother Frank is as handy about the
kitchen as a woman, and he is not at work,
now. Besides, I shan't be away all the time ;
I shall run back and forth, enough to have my
fingers in both pies. And speaking of pie,
Barbara, here is a cherry one that I had stand-
ing idle in my pantry ; I felt sure that you
had n't made any dessert, yet."
Barbara took the plate unsteadily. The two .
girls seemed to have changed natures, and
something of Susan's former stiffness had
fallen upon Barbara. Of the two, Susan was
far more at ease. "But I can't take favors
from you, — now," said Barbara, awkwardly,
"after what— "
" Look here, Barbara Grafton," answered
Susan. " You 've always been doing favors
for me, — all your life, — favors that I could n't
return. It was n't that I did n't want to, but
that I did n't know how. You could always do
things, — write, and draw, and sing, and enter-
tain, and' teach, — and I ' ve reaped the benefit.
Don't you suppose I 've ever wished that I
could return the favors? Now there 's only one
236 HOME FROM COLLEGE
thing in all this world that I can do for you,
and that is cook. Do you mean to say that
you 're not going to let me do it ? "
Over the little brown pie the two girls
clasped hands. " Where do you keep your
potatoes ? " said Susan. " It 's so late that I '11
have to boil them."
Somehow the long hours of the day dragged
by, and ten o'clock at night found Barbara
in her room.
"Go to bed, now," her father had said.
" David's stupor will last all night, and I want
you to be ready for to-morrow, when we shall
need you. Miss Graves can take care of him
better than either of us, just now. Our turn
will come later."
It was hard to stay in the sick-room, where
the deathly silence was broken only by the
little invalid's heavy breathing and the swish
of Miss Graves's stiffly starched petticoats;
harder still to go away, beyond these sounds.
Barbara went reluctandy, dreading the long
night when hands must lie idle, and feet still.
REAL TROUBLE 237
Jack, too, had decided to " turn in early," and
the house seemed very silent without the
usual uproar of the children's bedtime. She
had just fallen into an uneasy sleep, when she
was roused by a step upon the stair. In a mo-
ment she was wide awake. Was it her father
with bad news, or Miss Graves in search of
something? By the familiar squeak Barbara
knew that the top stair had been reached.
The step sounded in the hallway, and the girl
sat up in bed as her door was pushed open
and a shadowy little figure entered the room.
" Cecilia Grafton ! " exclaimed Barbara.
Gassy tiptoed toward the bed. "How's
David?" she demanded, in a whisper.
" How on earth did you get here?"
"Walked. How's David?"
"Just about the same. Father says he is
not suffering any pain. Did you come alone
at this time of night?"
" Yes," said Gassy, defiantly, " I did. Mrs.
Willowby thought we ought to go to bed
early. So we did. She let me sleep in the rose
room, only I couldn't Mr. Willowby went to
238 HOME FROM COLLEGE
bed early, too, in the room just across the hall,
and he snored awful. I stayed awake about
two hours. I knew I could n't get to sleep
unless I knew, myself, how David was, so I
dressed and came. Is he going to be awful
sick, Barbara? Tell me the truth; please don't
fool me!" A pair of cold little hands found
their way to Barbara's shoulders.
"We hope not, dear."
" I wish I could sleep here to-night I hate
to be sent away."
" But Mrs. Willowby will worry, if she finds
that you have gone."
"Can't you telephone her that I'm here?
I'll go back to-morrow, Barbara, and I'll be
awful good if you'll just let me sleep with you
to-night I always thought heaven was like
that rose room, but I can't sleep in it Please
let me stay here."
Barbara slipped on her bath-robe and tip-
toed down to the telephone. All was quiet
in the sick-room as she passed. When she
reached her own chamber, Gassy was cuddled
down between the sheets. She snuggled close
REAL TROUBLE 239
to her older sister with a little sob. " Even
rose rooms can't keep you from worrying,
can they?" she said.
In the three weeks that followed, Barbara
discovered that nothing can " keep you from
worrying" when the dark shadow that men
call Dread of Death stands on the thresh-
old. She marveled constandy that one frail
little body could withstand such desperate
onslaughts of fever and pain. David's illness
'was quick of development: the drowsiness
was followed by days of high fever, and these
were succeeded by nights of unconsciousness
which plainly showed the strain to which the
litde frame was being subjected. He wasted
greatly under the suffering, and although her
father and Dr. Curtis said, " About the same,"
each day, it seemed tg Barbara's eyes that the
little brother grew less human and more
shadowy with every succeeding twenty-four
hours. Mrs. Grafton had not been told, both
physicians deciding that the shock might
cause a relapse, and Barbara's hardest duty
2AQ HOME FROM COLLEGE
was to keep the news from her mother. In the
cheery letters that continued to go to the sani-
tarium at regular intervals, there was not a
word of the tragedy at home, but the writing
was more of a strain than the watching in the
sick-room.
As Dr. Grafton had predicted to Barbara,
her turn came later. David took a most unac-
countable dislike to Miss Graves, whose devo-
tion to starch was the only thing in her dis-
favor, and he objected to her presence in the
sick-room with the unreasoning vehemence of
the delirious. It was impossible to dismiss Miss
Graves without some valid excuse, and equally
impossible to secure another nurse in Auburn.
So most of the care devolved upon Barbara,
much to David's satisfaction, for he called
constantly for his sister, and seemed most
contented when her hands smoothed the hot
pillow or gave the sleeping-draught
To the management of the housework, Bar-
bara gave litde thought Meals were scarcely
an incident in those days of waiting. Litde by
litde, as conditions grew graver in the inva-
REAL TROUBLE 241
lid's room, Barbara gave up more and more
of her household duties, yet she was vaguely-
aware that things went on like clockwork
downstairs. The meals that appeared upon the
table were delicious, and yet Susan's part in
them was not obvious. She slipped in and out
of the house at all hours, always bringing com-
fort with her, and yet bestowing it so quietly
that it seemed the gift of a beneficent fairy.
Every critical thing that Barbara had ever
said of the provincialism and officiousness of
Auburn folk came back to her during these
days of trouble. When Mrs. Willowby came
with advice or encouragement, when the
Enderby children brought home David's
school-books, when Miss Pettibone came run-
ning "across lots" with beef tea or a plate of
doughnuts, when Mr. Ritter pressed his tele-
phone into service, and agreed to carry all
messages, that the sick child might not be dis-
turbed, when even Miss Bates stopped at the
door to inquire affectionately about the invalid,
and when all the town combined to keep the
news from Mrs. Grafton, Barbara's conscience
242 HOME FROM COLLEGE
was stricken. Her heart wanned with grati-
tude, and the meaning of the word neighborli-
ness was, for the first time, made dear to her.
And vet, with all the kindliness and help-
fulness that Auburn could bestow, there was
plenty left for the girl to do. It was Barbara
who answered the door, who took the mes-
sages, who encouraged the children, who
cheered Jack, who comforted her father, who
assisted the nurse, who was brave when con-
ditions were most discouraging, and sunny
when the clouds hung lowest And it was Bar-
bara, too, who sat beside the bed, ready to
rub the aching side or smooth the feverish
brow, and who met, with a sinking heart, the
discouragement that each day brought
It was the middle of October before the cri-
sis came. An early frost had stripped the flower
beds, withered the vines, and left the yard
bare. Barbara, looking out of the window
through a blur of rain, on the day when David's
fever was highest, was vaguely relieved by
the desolation outside. Sunshine out of doors
REAL TROUBLE 243
would have been a mockery. She stood with
her back toward the bed and her face toward
the street, but her eyes saw nothing but the
wasted little form that tossed restlessly to and
fro, and her ears heard only the heavy breath-
ing, broken, now and then, by a moan. Miss
Graves had gone to get a few hours' sleep to
fortify herself for the vigil of the night, and
Dr. Grafton, in the next room, was consulting
with Dr. Curtis. The house was so still that
their low voices were plainly audible. The
words were not distinct, but the discouraged
note in her father's speech fell heavily upon
the girFs heart. "They are afraid," she said
to herself.
She turned from the desolate window to the
bed, and with pale lips and dry eyes gazed
down at the little brother. David tossed rest-
lessly upon his pillow, and called aloud for
Barbara.
" I 'm here, dear," said the girl, taking the
small, hot hand in hers ; but the boy flung it
away with a strange strength.
" I want Barbara" he cried.
244 HOME FROM COLLEGE
At the sound of the hoarse voice, Dr. Graf-
ton hurried back into the room, followed by
Dr. Curtis. And then began a fight with death
that Barbara never forgot Pushed aside as
merely an onlooker, the girl watched, with a
sort of curiosity, the man that she saw for the
first time in her life. The father she had al-
ways known had vanished ; in his place was
the skilled physician, who seemed to have
thought for the patient rather than the son.
The two doctors worked like one machine, —
fighting the fever back step by step, beating
it, choking it, quenching it ; pitting against it
strength and science and skilL And when it
finally succumbed, and David was snatched
from the burning, a poor little wasted wraith
of life, Barbara understood the worship that
Dr. Grafton's patients gave him.
" We 've won out," he said* " The fever 's
left the boy. Now if we can only keep him
alive to-night — "
The shadows of evening were heavy in the
room as Miss Graves's starchiness sounded
REAL TROUBLE 245
along the hall. She went at once to the bed-
side, and laid her hand on the boy's forehead.
Then she looked quickly up at the doctor. In
that glance Barbara read the whole story, — it
was a question, now, of vitality.
Susan herself brought up the tray of supper
to Barbara, who tried to eat it in order to seem
appreciative. But the rolls and the creamed
chicken were sent back untasted, and she
could not even find words to reply to the un-
worded sympathy in Susan's good-night. The
old habit of gesture comes back in times of
deepest emotion, and both girls understood,
without need of words, Susan's reassuring pat
of the shoulder, and Barbara's tight grasp of
the hand.
" Go to bed, children," said Dr. Grafton, as
he came out of the sick-room to the hall where
, Barbara and Jack stood together. " We need
absolute quiet and plenty of air for the boy.
There '11 be no change for several hours, and
you want all the sleep you can get"
" I can't sleep," protested Jack.
"But you can rest> and you must do it,"
246 HOME FROM COLLEGE
answered his father. "We may need you
both — later."
" You'll call us," said Jack, "if — "
"Yes," said his father, "I will"
Jack turned, without a word, to his own
room, and Barbara heard him throw himself
on the bed with a half-stifled moan. She her-
self opened her bedroom door and went in.
Sleep was out of the question. She fell upon
her knees beside her couch and prayed, — an
inarticulate, broken cry for the help that is
beyond human power. Then she lighted her
litde night lamp, and sat down before her
desk with a volume of Emerson in her hand.
She turned to the essay on Compensation,
and read, her eyes seeking and finding the
detached sentences that seemed written for
her: —
We cannot part with our friends. We cannot let
our angels go. We do not see that they only go out
that archangels may come in. . . . We cannot again
find aught so dear, so sweet, so graceful. But we sit
and weep in vain. . . . The death of a dear . . .
brother . . . breaks up a wonted occupation, or a
REAL TROUBLE 247
household. . . . But ... the man or woman who
would have remained a sunny garden flower with no
room for its roots and too much sunshine for its head,
by the falling of the walls and the neglect of the gar-
dener is made the banian of the forest, yielding shade
and fruit to wide neighborhoods of men.
Barbara dropped the book hastily. " There *s
no compensation in that 1 " she said bitterly.
Then she picked up a bit of paper, and put
the cry of her heart into a few crude words.
Her father, coming into the room two hours
later, found her there at her desk, her tear-
stained face bowed on her arms. The pencil
was still in her hand. Dr. Grafton touched her
shoulder gently, but the girl did not waken.
He hesitated for a moment, hoping for the
right words to tell her, and as he did so his
eyes fell upon the crumpled paper before him.
It read : —
THE BANIAN TREE
The flower grows beside the wall, —
A little, sheltered thing,
And over it the sunbeams fall
And merry linnets sing.
248 HOME FROM COLLEGE
No usefulness it has in life
So weak it is, and small,
And yet how happily it grows
Beside the shielding wall.
The banian tree grows tall and straight,
It sends its branches wide ;
Beneath its shade the pilgrims wait,
The travelers abide.
They praise it, lying on the sward ;
But what is that to me ?
Forgive me, Lord ; but it is hard
To be a banian tree !
The doctor's eyes filled. "Thank God," he
said, " she won't have to be, this time 1 "
CHAPTER XII
THE END OF THE INTERREGNUM
THE Grafton children stood in a row,
watching their father and Barbara
establish David in the big Morris
chair, on the occasion of his first trip down-
stairs. Joy and awe were struggling for su-
premacy in their hearts, but were carefully
concealed after the fashion of young America.
" Well, David," said Jack, jocularly, " you
look just exactly like a collapsed balloon.
Remember how nice and round you used to
be? Now, hurry up and get there again. It
was becoming."
"He reminds me of the pictures of the
famine-sufferers in India," remarked Gassy.
" How their ribs did stick out, and how funny
their hands were, — like claws."
" David looks to me like the sweetest small
boy ever made," said Barbara, quietly, as she
bent down to kiss the pale lips of the little
250 HOME FROM COLLEGE
fellow, and tucked the afghan around him
more closely.
" Puzzle, — find David ! " called Jack. And
indeed, the child seemed lost in the huge
chair, his wasted little face wearing a faint
smile of contentment at being the centre of
so much attention.
" If you children continue to talk so loudly,
you will have to leave," said Dr. Grafton, as
he prepared to depart. "Barbara, you will
see that David has all the quiet he needs, of
course."
The Kid raised himself from the floor, where
he had been wriggling in the imaginary like-
ness of a boa constrictor.
"Everybody talks about David," he said
jealously. "Aren't I the baby any more?"
" You'll always be a baby," consoled Jack ;
" a great big baby, even when you are as old
as I am. So don't worry."
Gassy laughed, and the Kid looked puzzled.
"Babies always cry," he said reflectively.
"Yes?" said Jack.
" Then you must be a baby too," added the
END OF THE INTERREGNUM 251
Kid, with triumph, " 'cause I saw you cry when
we first saw David. I did n't cry at all."
" No, you young sinner," returned his elder
brother. " You 've made a picnic of the whole
thing. I '11 bet a cookie you 've had a good
half of every bit of food that has been sent to
David. Hasn't he, Barbara?,,
"People have been very kind," said his
sister, disregarding his question. " But really,
if Miss Bates brings another installment of
preserved plums, I don't know what I shall
do. David can't eat them, and I 've explained
it to her; but she insists that they are the best
things possible for him, and brings them every
other day, with unvarying regularity."
" Let them cotne," said Jack, " and Charles
and I will advance to the onslaught, and de-
liver David from the attacks of the enemy.
Plums, chicken-broth — even quail — let them
continue to flow in abundantly, and fail to men-
tion to Auburn that David is not an ostrich."
" I guess Mrs. Willowby understands," ob-
served Gassy, impersonally. " She asked me if
David enjoyed the wine jelly she sent yester-
252 HOME FROM COLLEGE
day, and I said I did n't know, but that Jack
said it was the best he had ever tasted."
" Thunder 1 " exclaimed Jack, turning very
red. " Gassy, you do bear away the palm for
unpalatable honesty. Why is it, I wonder, that
every really honest person is disagreeable,
too?"
" Letters I" said Dr. Grafton, reappearing
opportunely. "Two for you, Barbara, one
from your mother, marked 'Personal,' and
the other postmarked New York. David, how
would you like to see your mother again?"
The litde boy looked up and smiled at his
father. " I wish she'd come," he said. "She's
never seen me since I was a sufferer from
India. I was a balloon when she left"
" Well, you will soon have a chance to show
her how fast you are getting well," replied the
doctor, smiling. " I wrote her the whole story
of last month, the other day, since she is so
much stronger, and here is her answer. She
will be at home at six o'clock this very after-
noon."
The children all exclaimed at once, even
END OF THE INTERREGNUM 253
Gassy, who threw her arms around Jack's neck
and hugged him, quite forgetting her usual
self-repression, and his recent thrust at her
honesty.
" Hurray I" cried Jack, joyfully, escaping
from Gassy and twirling a small chair in air.
" It seems too good to be true."
Barbara said nothing. She glanced at her
father, who returned her look with one of un-
derstanding. They were both thinking of the
home-coming as it might have been.
" I forget about mother, some," remarked
the Kid. " Was she as nice as Barbara?"
David answered him. "They're both the
same kind," he said quaintly, " but mother 's
mother. That 's all the difference."
" We must have a house clean and pretty
enough for mother to come back to," said
Barbara, smiling at the invalid. " Gassy, you
will have to help a little ; there will be so much
to do. Jack, take care of David for a little
while, please."
" I don't mind helping," said Gassy, as they
left the room together. " I'd sweep the whole
254 HOME FROM COLLEGE
house, if it would bring mother back. I won-
der how shell think I look, with my hair bob-
bity. Mercy, Barbara; you dropped one of
your letters. Here it is."
"I'll open it now," said Barbara, sitting
down on the stairs. "Why, it's from the In-
fant"
The Infant's letter was short and to the
point
" You have n't written me or the other girls
for three months," it began ; " and I shall pun-
ish you. I shan't tell you that Atalanta is en-
gaged, and that the Sphinx is too, though how
it happened, I don't see. The man must have
been able to answer some of her mathematical
riddles, or he never could have reached her
heart And I won't tell you about my summer
abroad, — not a word, — nor how Knowledge
is going to be a post-grad, at Columbia, and
visit me at the end of every week. You don't
deserve a line, Barbara Grafton I But I am
writing to tell you that I just heard — no
matter how — that you refused the Eastman
Scholarship, and to ask you mildly whether
END OF THE INTERREGNUM 255
you are insane. With all your talent and abil-
ity, Babbie, how could you refuse it? Every
one always knew that you should have had
it in the first place. Now you surely are not
going to stay in that little town of yours that
you have so often ridiculed. There is only one
reason by which I can account for it, and I
don't think you can be in love."
Barbara laughed aloud, and folded up the
letter. " To think that I wanted it so much,"
she said aloud, unconsciously. "What if I
had not been here this autumn I "
"Hadn't been here?" repeated Gassy.
" Why, Barbara I Did you ever think of leav-
ing us ? "
Barbara threw an arm around her sister's
shoulders. " I would n't leave you for any-
thing," she said.
They had reached the kitchen, and had
fallen to work together. "It's too bad we
have n't a servant," said Gassy, " though you
do cook very well now, Barbara. Only I'd
like mother to come home and find a girl in
the kitchen."
256 HOME FROM COLLEGE
" It 9s too bad, indeed," returned Barbara,
cheerfully. " But remember how we were
helped when David was ill; and think how
Mrs. Willowby gave up her own maid to us
for so long, and of all that Susan did. I 'm so
happy over David that I don't mind cooking
nowadays. And you are a nice little assist-
ant, Gassy."
The nice little assistant glowed with plea-
sure. " Know why?" she inquired.
"No; why?"
" Hair I " replied Gassy, laconically. " Hair
and clothes. You were pretty good to me that
dreadful day when the hair went, and you
make me look so much nicer. I like you very
much, Barbara," — Gassy never used the word
"love," — "and I don't think college has hurt
you one bit, no matter what Miss Bates says.
It 's just as Jack says, — your A. B. stands for
A Brick, instead of A Bachelor."
" Did he say that ? " said Barbara, laughing
at the unexpected conclusion, as she leaned
over and patted the stiff little shoulder near
her.
END OF THE INTERREGNUM 257
" You 're a dear little sister," she said.
"Who's that?"
A loud knock had sounded at the door.
" Come in 1 " called Barbara.
The door opened slowly; a puffing man,
carrying a small trunk, entered, and dropped
it heavily on the floor. It was the Vegetable
Man.
" Why — what — " began Barbara.
The Vegetable Man smiled at her serenely.
"She 's comin'," he said, and disappeared,
leaving Barbara and Gassy staring at each
other in astonishment.
Suddenly the door reopened, and there
appeared the Vegetable Man's daughter, as
untidy and breezy as ever.
" I 've come back," she said. " I heerd you
was wantin' help, so I come over. Guess I 41
stay, this time. Shall I hang my hat here ? "
"But — your husband — " began Barbara.
11 Htm? Why, don't you know?" returned
the Vegetable Man's daughter, serenely. " I
didn't like 'im after we was married. He
drank. So I come home."
258 HOME FROM COLLEGE
" Drank ! " cried Gassy, in horror.
The Vegetable Man's daughter nodded.
" Like a fish ! " she added. " T wan't a day
before he began. Stood it two months, I did,
an* then I lit out. Come home, an* it was n't
excitin' enough for me, so when I heerd you
was still without, I come over ag'in. Miss
Barbara, if you don't tell me what to git for
dinner, there won't be no time for gittin'."
Barbara started. " You took me so by sur-
prise, Libbie," she said, "that I can scarcely
think. I 'm delighted to have you back, espe-
cially since mother is coming home to-day."
"Want to knowl" ejaculated the girl.
"Landed right in the middle of excitement,
did n't I ?"
" Yes ; and we 're going to celebrate with a
grand supper," put in Gassy, thinking it best
to break the news at once.
"You bet!" cried the Vegetable Man's
daughter, cheerfully. "Nothing's too good
for your ma. Now, Miss Barbara, what meat ?
Or do you still go without ? "
Barbara hesitated. In that moment's hesita-
END OF THE INTERREGNUM 259
tion there was involved more than the order-
ing of a dinner. Theory had its last battle
with Practicality, and came out with drooping
colors. But Dr. Grafton would have been re-
lieved in regard to the stability of Barbara's
sense of humor, if he could have heard the
laugh with which she admitted her own de-
feat. " I will order some steak," she said.
" It 's too good to be true/' she said joyfully
to Gassy, as they left the kitchen. " I declare,
I scarcely know where I am, I am so glad.
Isn't it beautiful when things unexpectedly
work out right ?"
"Glad the Vegetable Man's daughter's
husband drank?" inquired Gassy.
Barbara laughed again, and did not an-
swer.
The morning flew by as if Father Time had
suddenly borrowed the wings of Mercury. Bar-
bara dusted and straightened the rooms, put-
ting everything in immaculate order. Many
little duties, which had been disregarded dur-
ing David's illness, suddenly came to her re-
collection, and the girl essayed to finish them
260 HOME FROM COLLEGE
all. She resolved that her reign should end in
a blaze of glory, and that her mother should
see that the Interregnum had not been en-
tirely discreditable to the House of Grafton.
Gassy, a willing assistant, performed un-
wonted miracles in the way of dusting, at the
same time keeping up an unending flow of
conversation.
They were putting the finishing touches to
the living-room, where David still sat, waited
upon cheerfully by the Kid, when the door-
bell rang vigorously. The door opened with-
out ceremony and a strident voice in the hall
called, " Barbara Grafton ! "
"It's Miss Bates!" exclaimed Barbara, in a
low tone. " Run and take her into the library,
Gassy."
But it was too late.
"Oh, here you are!" said Miss Bates, ap-
pearing in the doorway. " I came right in be-
cause I thought you were probably not dressed
to answer the bell. Barbara, I brought in some
more plums because I know David ought to
eat 'em to build him up."
END OF THE INTERREGNUM 261
" I am so sorry," said Barbara. " But father
says they are still too much for him."
" Your father don't know, Barbara ; no, he
don't Men never know about such things.
Now there ain't much sugar in 'em — "
"Never mind!" interposed the Kid, cour-
ageously. "Never mind, Miss Bates, I'll eat
'em. Jack says " —
"Hey?" ejaculated the spinster.
"Charles," warned Barbara, "you — "
" Jack says to let you give 'em and we '11
eat 'em," continued the Kid, determined to
finish his sentence.
Miss Bates glared at him. " Barbara," she
said, " I don't know why it is, but I get insulted
by these children every time I put my nose
into this house. Now I don't want to complain,
but I 've a mind to tell you what Charles did
to me last night. I was laying the table for
supper, and I 'd left the window open for air,
and all of a sudden that child's head was
in the window, and he says, ' Mercy on us,
Birdine, is that all you 've got for supper?' "
The Kid disappeared under the sofa like
262 HOME FROM COLLEGE
a whipped dog. Barbara closed her lips tight,
to keep from smiling.
" Well, of course," put in Gassy, "the Kid
is always used to plenty of food, you see."
Miss Bates glared again. "Is that why he
wants to eat up my plums?" she inquired.
" No, Barbara, I '11 take 'em back, since you
won't let David eat 'em. And I want to tell
you now, that I don't intend to come to this
house again under any circumstances, since
these children are so rude, till your ma comes
home, no matter how long it is!"
"But she's coming home to-day!" burst
from both David and Gassy, in dismayed
unison.
Miss Bates gave them a queer look, flashed
a disdainful glance at Barbara, and left the
house.
41 It 's no use to scold you, Charles," said
Barbara, as she extricated the child from his
hiding-place. "But I am glad that mother is
coming to take the burden of your dreadful
speeches. Now see if you can stay good until
supper-time."
END OF THE INTERREGNUM 263
•
She left the room to arrange the details of
the feast, and as she passed through the hall,
she came upon the letter marked " Personal'*
which she had left forgotten on the table.
"I declare !" said she, sitting down on the
stairs again. " I believe I am going crazy with
joy to-day. I have forgotten one thing after
another."
She opened the letter eagerly, and as she did
so, stray words caught her eye, — " undoubted
talent," — " unquestionable success," etc. She
turned to the first page and read: —
Dear little Girl, — For you are a little girl to
me, and always will be, in spite of your twenty-one
years, — I have something to tell you which cannot
wait until I reach home. It is also somewhat of a
confession, and I am sure that you will absolve me
when you have read this.
I wonder if you have realized how very entertain-
ing your letters have been, and what a godsend they
were to me in this tedious place. They were so clever
that I could not help reading them to a few of the
friends whom I have made here. One of them is
Hugh S. Black, whom I have often mentioned, you
264 HOME FROM COLLEGE
remember, and who has been slowly recovering from
an attack of nervous prostration. He grew very much
interested in your letters, — so much so, that I had
not the heart to refuse to read them. I told him of
your desire to write, and of the piles of rejected psy-
chological studies which have been mounting up on
your desk. In fact, you told him, yourself, although
you were not aware of it. We have often talked you
over, and he thinks that you have undoubted talent,
and can gain unquestionable success in writing for
publication, if you will be willing to attempt the kind
of things that lie within your own experience. Mr.
Black said the other day, " Your girl has wit, humor,
an excellent power of description, the faculty of see-
ing things as they are, and of describing them from
an original point of view. Why won't she write stories
or sketches dealing with every-day life, instead of
such nonsense as ' The Effect of Imagination on the
Habits of the Child' ?"
This morning, Mr. Black asked me if I would not
request you to read over your letters and change them
into proper form for a story, which he will be glad to
publish serially in his magazine, if the finished pro-
duct meets with his approval. This is a splendid
opportunity for you, little daughter, and I advise you
to grasp it.
END OF THE INTERREGNUM 265
Are you disappointed to find that your talents do
not lie along the psychological paths of lofty, intel-
lectual labor ? Does this story of your experiences of
one summer seem too trivial for your effort ? I think
not, my dear, if the change in the tone of your letters
can be depended upon for inference. We shall talk
this over when I am once more at home, and can
relieve my brave, strong girl of the burdens which
* she has borne for four long months.
There was more in the letter, but Barbara
did not read it. She danced about the hall
with such abandon that her father opened his
office door, and regarded her with amazement
"Has my housekeeper taken leave of her
senses?" he asked affectionately.
" On the contrary/ ' returned Barbara, sau-
cily, "she has just regained them. Father
dear, I realize that we must not all aspire to
high tragedy or classic sublimity. High com-
edy seems to be more in my line."
Her father looked at her with his eyes
softening more and more. "Come in here,"
he said, and closed the door behind them.
" Barbara, my dear," he began, looking at
266 HOME FROM COLLEGE
her over his spectacles, "I have a kind of
confession to make to you/'
" Another one ! " thought Barbara.
"When you came home last June, things
were a little hard for you, and seemed still
harder, did n't they ? "
" Well, rather ! " said Barbara, slangily.
" Your point of view was young and uncom-
promising, and — yes — rather toploftical."
"I know it."
Her father smiled. "You surveyed the
world from a collegiate summit, and found it*
woefully lacking. Well, so it is lacking, but
all the advice from all the lofty heights in the
world will never make it better. We must
come down into the plain, and struggle with
the common herd, and help to raise it by our
individual effort ; glad to be a living, toiling
part of great humanity, like every one else ;
never the isolated, censorious onlooker who
does not share the common lot. This is one
of the hardest lessons for youth to learn, and
I have watched you learn it, during all these
long, hard months."
END OF THE INTERREGNUM 267
" If I only have really learned it ! " put in
Barbara.
" I have stood aside," her father continued.
"Sometimes I did not help you, even when
I might, and you thought me undiscerning or
abstracted. Barbara, my dear, you have done
it all yourself, and I am very, very proud of
my firstborn."
Barbara crimsoned with pleasure. " I We
made awfully silly mistakes," she said, " and
you have been so dear and patient."
She kissed her father gratefully. As she
went upstairs, her mind was filled with won-
der that she should ever have misunderstood
him so completely, and have complacendy
ascribed to herself intellect and culture and
knowledge superior to his. She found herself
feeling actually grateful for the events of her
life since June.
41 What if I had never known his darling-
ness 1 " she said.
It was not many hours before Auburn knew
of the expected arrival of Mrs. Grafton. Miss
Bates had constituted herself an information
268 HOME FROM COLLEGE
bureau, and had flitted hither and thither with
an alacrity not at all hindered by her rage
against the younger Graftons.
About four o'clock in the afternoon, as
Barbara was giving capable directions in the
kitchen, a knock sounded on the door.
" I just ran in this way," said Susan, " be-
cause I wanted to congratulate you, and to
see if you don't want this chocolate cake for
supper. Barbara, what are you laughing at ? "
" This is the third cake I have received to-
day for mother," giggled Barbara, " and four
chickens are waiting to be consumed. But put
it down, Sue dear, and Jack will make a hole
in it very soon."
" Well, anyway," Susan declared, " it 's be-
cause every one loves your mother so much 1
And it is also because every one recognizes
your pluck."
" Everybody in this whole town is lovely!'
answered Barbara.
Susan smiled. But there was no triumph in
her face, only joy that her friend had come
into her own.
END OF THE INTERREGNUM 269
" It is half-past five 1 " announced Barbara
from the window-seat of the living-room.
" Father has gone to the train almost an hour
ahead of time. Everything in the house is in
perfect order ; supper is nearly ready ; David
is n't tired ; and we are all ' neatly and taste-
fully attired ' for the occasion. Won't mother
be impressed ! "
" Not by Gassy," answered Jack. " Gassy
has a hole in her stocking above her shoe,
and I don't know how many below. Her waist
has two buttons missing in the back ; still, her
hair is somewhat improved, and that's one
comfort."
11 1 look as well as you," retorted Gassy, car-
rying the work-basket over to her sister. " You
have some soot on your face, and I won't tell
you where, and nobody else shall, either."
"Am I clean?" asked David, plaintively.
"Clean!" exclaimed Jack. "Why, David,
you 're as clean as a piece of blank paper, and
just as thin. Turn your face to mother when
she comes in, for she won't be able to see you
if she catches a glimpse of you sideways."
270 HOME FROM COLLEGE
" How tiresome you are, Jack ! " observed
Gassy, condescendingly. "I — "
She was interrupted by a series of bumps
and scrapings in the cellar below, followed by
a strange wailing moan.
" Hark from the tombs a doleful sound ! "
cried Jack, rising. " I '11 bet a quarter it *s the
Kid."
It was the Kid. Clad in a clean white sailor
suit, and finding time pressing heavily on his
hands, he had bethought himself of a gift
with which to meet his mother, — none other
than one of the new kittens which had been
born two weeks before and were now passing
their infancy on an old rug at the bottom of a
barrel in the cellar. Having made an expedi-
tion to the barrel, the Kid had endeavored to
gain one of the feline offspring by reaching
over into the dark depths, with a logical re-
sult of falling headlong into the barrel. The
muffled shrieks which the family heard, and
the sounds of scraping, were such as would
naturally proceed from the attempts of a small
boy to rescue himself from an uncomfortable
END OF THE INTERREGNUM 271
posture. When Jack arrived upon the scene,
the Kid had just succeeded in freeing himself
by tipping over the barrel and crawling out
Being blinded and confused by the length of
time in which he had been standing on his
head, he had made a wild dive for the door,
and found himself prone on the piles of coal
on the cellar floor.
" Well, here 's a mess ! " cried Jack, with
disgust, picking him up and dragging him
along to the upper regions. "Look at this,
Barbara ; and there axe only ten minutes to
change his clothes.,,
Barbara hurried the little boy upstairs with-
out a word of reproach. She washed him
quickly, and was struggling with a stiff new
linen suit, when the sound of a carriage came
to her ears.
11 1 love you, Barbara, for changing me,"
the Kid said humbly.
She kissed him affectionately. " Now your
tie,— there!"
The carriage had stopped. She heard Jack's
excited voice downstairs. The Kid made a
272 HOME FROM COLLEGE
desperate wriggle from her and fled down the
steps, shouting for his mother. Barbara felt a
sudden pang as he left her, — a pang of loneli-
ness and desertion. She stood still a moment,
and then, almost before she had time to move,
a quick step sounded on the stairs, a new,
fresh mother came swif dy into the room, and
two strong, firm arms held her close.
" Barbara, my brave, splendid daughter ! "
said the most motherly voice in the world.
Barbara's reign was over.
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